


Think Again

by Xenrae



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!Hawke, Betrayal, Dom!Hawke, Dorian is not always nice, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Friendship, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Magic-Users, Self-Acceptance, angry!Fenris, bottom!fenris, but he is always hot, but with D/s elements, confused!Fenris, not a D/s story, oblivious!Hawke, ohhhh Fenris, self-journey, sorry!Hawke, strong!Fenris, sub!fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenrae/pseuds/Xenrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris Comes to Skyhold, without a sword, and just a little twisted.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>You thought you could just leave me here while you go off and die?</i><br/><i>That I would just stay behind because you said it was best for me?</i><br/><i>Think again.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline is mostly canon, but where it's not, kindly look the other way :)

* * * * * * *

It was so damn cold, and the wind and snow were nearly blinding.  Fenris trudged on.

Sometimes between the gusts he could see the lanterns and archways of Skyhold further up the mountain. Sometimes he was sure it was delirium.  The blisters on his feet sang from the unfamiliar boots, but bare feet would not abide the frozen path he was forced to take.  Every so often, melting globs of snow would wend their way down inside to his feet and he silently thanked Andraste for the momentary relief they brought.

Eight hours pushing through the blizzard now.  The slope of the mountain resisted every step, but still he kept on.  The swish and whirl of blowing wind and snow whipped through his hair and relentlessly tugged at the robes and capes he tried in vain to keep pulled around him.  However often he was tempted to stop and rest, he knew to ignore the temptress of sleep, and he would shake the thought from his head and go on.

Another gust and a distant flicker of light through all the gray.  Was he almost there?  He chided himself for the weakness of hope.  It would serve no purpose to anticipate a warm fire, bandaged feet or even... an embrace?  He turned his mind away from the light and let the cadence of painful footsteps resume its prodding rhythm.

His thoughts followed one increment to the next, searching in vain for a final place where, in the face of this tortuous journey, he'd made a choice that made sense.  He could have stayed home.  He could have left Kirkwall after the events at the Gallows, or even before they began.  He could have found Danarius in any other place in Thedas but where a dark haired mage would stumble across his path, and the warmth of his eyes would change everything.  He could have - should have - known better than to love him.

Fenris squinted his eyes against the pain of wind, or maybe it was tears.  It didn't matter.  He tugged the cape once again around his shoulders, leaning forward against the wind.  Take another step, he told himself.  Take another step.

*******

 A week before, Fenris stretched and slowly opened his eyes to pale morning sunlight.  The blankets engulfed him and he yawned and lay quietly in the warm glow of contentment.  "Hawke..." he said, an outstretched arm reaching beside him.  He had tried "Garrett" more than once, but too often it came out as an awkward stumble, rather than the tender endearment he felt when he said it.  The mage always laughed, and Fenris had finally given up. 

"Hawke?"  The pillow was empty.   Fenris sighed.  The man could never just wake in a quiet moment and relax with him.  Today in particular, Fenris might have enjoyed the slow, languid caress of a morning of foreplay and passion.  Always running off to be a hero, Fenris thought with fondness, and fell back against the pillow.

Finally he pulled himself out of bed, and crossed the room for a robe.  He tied the belt around his waist and reached for a piece of fruit to munch as he contemplated where he might find the heroic mage to wrest a good morning embrace from him.

But the note he found on the desk had other plans, and his body tightened with dread as soon as he began to read.  
  
 _"Fenris,_

_Please don't be angry._

_I've received word from Varric that the Inquisition requires my aid.  Haven, and many men and women of the Inquisition, were utterly destroyed by Corypheus.  Somehow he has returned, Fenris, and it is my arrogance that left him to rise again._

_The Herald of Andraste has been crowned the Inquisitor and he gathers an army.  I've gone to them, and I cannot tell you where._

_Fenris, my wicked elf and love of my life, perhaps I've softened, or perhaps nothing has ever mattered as much to me as you, but I could not put you in danger again.  Please, stay where you are.  Leave your sword upon the wall, and wait for me.  Let me know in my heart that you are safe until I return._

_It is the hardest thing I've ever done to leave without goodbye.  Please, try to understand._

_You alone are my strength,_

_Hawke"_

The parchment crumpled in Fenris' fist and a great, rending cry sprang from his chest as he fell to his knees on the floor.

*******

The elf visibly shook his head, chasing the words of abandonment from his mind.  He imagined the next gust of icy wind tossing them away from him, through the trees and back down the mountain.  Gone.  Hawke had never written them because Hawke would never leave him.

But he had.

A few more steps and the taunting glow of yellow through the trees.  _Don't imagine it's Skyhold, Fenris_ , he reminded himself.  _Just keep going_. 

Thirty more yards and light could be seen even through the swirling wall of white that surrounded him.  _Don't._    Twenty more, and brighter.  _Please..._ and he relinquished reality, finally exhausted enough that he didn't care if the glow was a mirage.  He would go to it and meet his end or his salvation, either way.

Twenty more yards and Fenris was sure he could see the outline of the keep.  Majestic towers of stone rose before him, pocketed with dim archways and openings, the warm promise of a candle sometimes reaching for him from within.

Maker, he was cold.  The glow from the courtyard fire was clearer now, and he thought he might hear voices, or the faint sound of horse tackle... or was it clanging practice swords... blowing through the wind.   Maybe he was close enough now and could rest for awhile... just close his eyes....let the darkness that had pushed against his vision the last hour ... peace...  _don't_... warmth... _fight, Fenris_... Hawke...

Almost as an afterthought, Fenris felt his legs give out beneath him.  In painful slow motion, he collapsed in the snow and gravity won as he was carried backward down the slope eighty yards or more.  As he slid against the jagged stone of the mountain beneath him, the scraping against his muscles and bones brought him fully conscious, but it was too late.  Fenris grabbed at the rocks trying to slow his descent, fingers clutching at ice and snow, frozen and useless, slipping faster and more desperate each moment until finally his fragile Elvhen body abruptly, thankfully, came to rest against the anchored cruelty of a boulder.

Fenris didn't know it yet, but the fractured bones would save his life.  Not so far up the mountain, through the din of swords and horses and voices and wind, someone, or some _thing_ , heard him scream.

* * * *


	2. So This is Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris' arrival gets mixed reactions from the Inquisition's inner circle.  
> And knitting.

_Voices... swirling light... warm liquid trickling to the back of his throat... sleep..._

_Pain everywhere... who was that...voices... more liquid... more sleep... dreams..._

_Light and darkness... a hand reaching to him, seeing, soothing... sleep ..._

When Fenris next opened his eyes, it took a moment for him to realize he was really awake this time.  He didn't move at first, staring at the planks and beams of the ceiling, gathering his thoughts.  He was in a bed, covered with blankets, pillows beneath his head.   He shifted his eyes just a bit and saw the hearth fire.  By the Maker, _a fire_.  Andraste herself could have stood in the corner and it wouldn't have mattered as much.   Somebody was sitting near him, but he didn't care.  The pain from his shoulder and ribs was coming alive like daggers and he longed again for the forgiveness of sleep.  He closed his eyes.

"No, elf.  It's time to come back," a voice said quietly next to him.  His eyes flew open and he turned his head toward the voice.

A young human male sat in the hard chair next to the bed.  He was very pale and his blond hair hung low over his face.  Their eyes met.

"Who are you?"

"I am Cole.  I heard you screaming.  I tried to come sooner.  Please, stillness for your bones, elf."

The warrior squinted at him, slightly annoyed at the pattern of his words.  "My _name_ is Fenris.  Where am I?"

"Skyhold Keep, under the protection of the Inquisition.  You must be still," the human said again when Fenris tried to raise himself up.  "They're knitting and they'll be angry if you move."

Fenris rested back on the pillow, stunned.  Skyhold.  He had made it after all.  He remembered seeing lights, hearing voices, but nothing else.  Then...

Hawke!

"Where is Garrett Hawke?  The Champion of Kirkwall.  I must see him.  Where is he...." Fenris demanded, his upper body swaying off balance as he tried to sit up and simultaneously untangle his legs from the blankets.

"No, elf, please don't ...."

Without warning, the elf was overcome with pain, and something else, and the world became white before he closed his eyes and lost consciousness again.

 *******

"What's on your mind, _amatus_?" Dorian whispered into the Herald's ear, wrapping both arms around him from behind.  The mage leaned shirtless against his back, nuzzling his nape, as the still undressed inquisitor studied over a note from Josephine.

"Mmm, nothing I can't handle," Trevelyan said, leaning back into him.  He turned then, wrapping his arms around Dorian's neck, and kissed him.  Dorian pulled him in close and kissed back, blood already swimming fast for such an early morning.  Their lips still pressed together, the Inquisitor smiled when he felt the subtle movement of his hips.  "Stop it, Dorian," he said, gently pushing him away.  "Really, there is so much to do today."

"Your loss then, " Dorian quipped, laughing and releasing him, then throwing himself on the bed in mock rejection.  "So, who is this Fenris I keep hearing about?" he threw out casually.  "Apparently he's going to have the good manners to live, so I thought I'd better know ahead of time what I'm dealing with.  I mean, he can dress himself and all that, can't he?"

The inquisitor laughed out loud at Dorian, eyes still on the message in his hands.  "Yes, I rather think he can dress himself.  He's a friend of the Champion, and also Varric.  He is known to be a vicious and capable warrior, and he fought at their side at Kirkwall.  I am told he was rather instrumental in stopping Meredith Stennard and the mage, Orsino, when the whole thing fell apart."

"Ah..." Dorian said, absentmindedly twisting his moustache.  "It's good he can fight.  There may be room for him here, yet."

"So, he has your permission to stay then?" the Herald looked up from the parchment in his hand and winked at the mage, who smiled back at him.

"Well, there's more actually, Dorian,"he continued.  "He has a special talent the Inquisition may find useful."  Dorian moved around to lay on his side, head propped up on one bent elbow, his curiosity piqued.  "Do tell." 

The Inquisitor put the message down and sat back against the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest. "According to Varric, Fenris was at one time subjected to a magical ritual that left lyrium burned into his skin.  You'll notice when you meet him.  It's quite obvious, and a bit unnerving.  Anyway, the lyrium allows him to phase in and out of the Fade, parts of his body or all of him.  He can reach into an enemy with his bare hands and crush their heart."

Dorian's eyes went wide.  "He can what?  Reach into flesh?  He must be a darling at parties."  Dorian said a bit playfully.  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, glancing around for clothes.  "Well, where is he?  I want to meet him.  Perhaps I can get him to show me his trick."

"Not just flesh, and no, we aren't going to go meet him just yet.  His journey here left him weak and injured, and.... well.... "  The Inquisitor hesitated.  Dorian's delightfully inflated image of himself might not take this next bit well.  He hated to have to tell him.

"Spit it out, _amatus_.  What aren't you saying?"

"I'm sorry, Dorian, but he isn't going to like you, and may not react well to meeting you at all," he said gently.

"Ha!  Don't be absurd.  Such charm and wit is rarely unappreciated.  I'm sure we'll be best of friends..."

"He's the escaped slave of a Tevinter magister, Dorian." The words came out in a rush.

Dorian looked up then, all humor gone from his face.  His eyes softened, a flash of humility and regret moving over them.  He looked back down at his hands, shoulders slumping in ugly understanding.  The Herald crossed the room and sat next to him on the bed, planting a kiss on the mage's shoulder.  "You are not responsible for the misdeeds of your countrymen, Dorian."

"Yes, yes, of course," he sighed.  "Such an ugly business, slavery.  The further I get from it, the easier it becomes to see."

Trevelyan left him to his thoughts for a moment, then softly reassured him.  "I'll make sure Fenris is well prepared for meeting a Tevinter mage as perfectly wonderful as you are, and I'm sure it will all be fine."

Dorian forced a laugh, "Yes, of course it will."  He lay back on the bed, trying to banish the dour thoughts from his head.  Moping, of course, was very uncivilized.

"There is one other thing, Dorian..." the Herald said, the faintest trace of humor once again playing in his eyes.  Dorian looked back at him, eagerly waiting to hear it.  "Hawke is in love with him."

The mage's mouth opened wide and he propped himself up on one elbow again.  "How positively desperate of him!  Tell me everything!" he said, teasing.

The Herald smiled back at him, grateful for Dorian's ever-present need to find humor in things.  Yes, there would indeed be tension between Fenris and the mage, but for now the ice was broken and the man he adored was smiling again.  He stretched out on the bed next to him, face down, resting on elbows, happy to forget about duty for a moment.

"Well, my love, you'll be _scandalized_ \- deliberately choosing one of Dorian's favorite expressions - to learn that you and I are not the only shameless male pairing in the keep anymore. Yes, Hawke and Fenris are devoted. They have been since the uprising began, and I suspect there is nothing desperate about it. When you are the Champion of Kirkwall, you sleep with whomever you choose, after all," he said, making fun of Hawke with kindness and a hint of laughter.

Dorian pushed the Inquisitor onto his back with a cluck of indignation and moved over him.  "I am stricken!  The Champion has a lover, and an elf no less! Dorian smirked. The Inquisitor stifled a laugh, looking up at him, his arms wrapping around his shoulders.  He was always making him laugh.

Dorian leaned over him, his eyes now warm with desire.  "So, you mean, Hawke does this to Fenris?" the mage said softly, planting a kiss at the hinge of his jaw... "or maybe this?" His voice was hushed and he slid their mouths together, his hand trailing across the other man's chest to his navel... "or perhaps this?" he whispered against the Herald's mouth, reaching inside the cloth of his pants.

The Inquisitor's gaze was dark looking up at him, his voice thick, "I imagine they do more, Dorian," he said as their eyes met.  Then he moaned against the mage's mouth when he kissed him again.  "But really, I need to...."

"Yes, I know, " Dorian whispered against his pulse, gently wrapping his fingers around his lover's swelling erection.  He stroked him gently, teasing him with his thumb, until the Herald's breath caught in his throat and he raised his hips in surrender.  Dorian moaned and moved the rest of his body over him.  "You devil," he breathed into a kiss, "I thought you would never ask."

 *******

Cassandra stormed into Cullen's office, slamming the door behind her.  "This is an outrage!" she said through clenched teeth.  She folded her arms across her chest and began pacing back and forth in front of the commander's desk.  The former templar looked up from his work with a crooked smile.  "I take it you've heard about Fenris?"

"Fenris.  Who is this elf?  Who does he think he is inviting himself to the Inquisition?"  She pounded her fist into her palm. "There are whispers that he's unstable.  He was a slave, Cullen!  How can we trust him?!"

Cullen rose from the desk and crossed over to the Seeker, placing a hand on each shoulder.  "Cassandra, please.  You must be reasonable.  Fenris crossed Ferelden in a week to be with Hawke.  By the Maker, he climbed a mountain in a blizzard!  Doesn't that say something about his character?"

"Yes, it does, Cullen.  That he's obsessive and selfish.  The Inquisition needs the Champion.  He cannot be bothered by this elf and his ridiculous yearnings," she said angrily, turning away to pace again.

"Cassandra, may I remind you that Fenris is a warrior, strong and capable with a sword, cursed or bestowed upon with lyrium, such that he can phase through the Fade?  We can use him, Cassandra.  The Inquisition needs every capable soldier it can get, and Fenris will fight."

Cullen, of course, had been at Kirkwall.  He had seen firsthand the destruction Fenris could wield upon his enemies.  He had witnessed the loyalty and commitment of the elf, to the cause, to justice, to the Champion himself.

"Seeker, I was there," he said quietly.  "You have nothing to worry about.  The elf will be an asset to our cause, and Hawke is too strong to let this interfere."

The woman turned her piercing eyes to meet Cullens', voice returning to the dignified calm he was used to.  "Commander, I will take your word that the elf is a good soldier, and I will take your word that he is a brave and loyal friend.  But this does nothing to assuage my concerns.  The _soldier_ lies in bed with a broken arm and will be of no use to the Inquisition.  As for the Champion, if he wasn't concerned about his lover's effect on his work, then why did he leave him to join us?"

Cassandra was clearly not expecting an answer, and she nodded then at Cullen and strode from the room.  The commander ran his palm across the top of his head with a sigh, and added _keep Fenris away from Cassandra_ to his list.

 *******

Fenris slept.  And he dreamed.

_Hawke held his hand tightly as they wandered through the city.  "It's beautiful , " Hawke said.  "Yes..." was all Fenris could say, the rest sticking in his throat, afraid of the emotion anything else would pull out of him.  This was Arlathan - or, at least as it existed in his dreams.  The central city of the Elvhenan.  Great towering spires of smooth stone, homes and shops, the arcades lined with flowers and things for sale. The streets were busy everywhere as the Elvhen went from place to place, living their happy infinite lives.  The sky was brilliant blue and a soft breeze blew across their skin as Hawke pulled him into an embrace._

_Kirkwall and the weight and feel of his greatsword cutting through the air.  Hawke was beside him and they both wore the blood of their enemies.  He felt the soft give of the magister's heart in his hand, lyrium glowing, the vessels popping one by one as he ripped it from his chest._

_They stood before Corypheus, his relentless taunting mouth twisted in a grimace as he cast the lightning at them both.  Hawke fell to the ground... there was blood... and too much smoke....and he wasn't moving... Maker, he's not moving..._

"No!"  Fenris sat up straight in bed, sweat beading across his chest and forehead.  He was alone, but heard the footsteps coming down the hall.  It wasn't long before the boy, with Varric, hurried into the room.

Fenris was panting from the nightmare, but he quickly recovered, glancing quizzically at the boy, and fondly at the dwarf.  "Varric.  Thank the Maker.  Somebody needs to start making sense."

Varric came to his side and took his hand.  "You'll be fine, Fenris, and we'll talk, but Cole here's got a thing about you "knitting" and we're just gonna take it slow, alright?"  He let go of his hand and drug a chair to the bedside to sit.

Fenris fell back into the bed, frustrated, but exhausted anyway.  "Knitting," he asked, eyes closed, breathing slowly.  "What does that mean... Cole?"

"They're knitting, and when you move, they can't keep the stitches.  They get tired."

Fenris rolled his head over and raised an eyebrow at Varric.  The dwarf chuckled, rubbing his chin.  "I don't know, Fenris.  I haven't figured this guy out yet.  The point I guess is that you can't get well if you keep this up.  Your arm was broken, Fenris, clean through.  The mages did what they could, but it's gonna take awhile.  That other pain is a broken rib, and well, you already know how that goes."

"You need to get well, your bones...and the rest. He hurts you... and he heals you." Cole mumbled in agreement, unphased.

Fenris ignored the strange being's words and closed his eyes again, laying his good arm folded across his forehead.  Broken arm, high up near the shoulder, he guessed from the pain.  He couldn't swing a sword with a broken arm.  If he couldn't swing a sword, he couldn't help the Inquisition.  If he couldn't help them, he couldn't bring Hawke home.  He was so tired.  His eyes began to water under closed lids, and he felt his breath catch in his chest.

"So, Cole, I'm guessing the elf could use some water, maybe something to eat.  Do you mind?"  It was obvious Varric was sending him from the room, and Fenris was quietly grateful.  He waited until the rogue was gone, and until Varric was ready, to say anything.

"Where is he, Varric?  He's not here or you wouldn't be sitting with me.  Where is he?"  

 

 


	3. Finding the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has had enough.

* * * * * * *

Mouths crushing together and hands everywhere, Hawke pushed Fenris into the side table with a groan.  They were in the manor kitchen, sometime after nightfall, and Fenris had no idea how they got here.

"Hawke, stop! They'll hear us!" the elf whispered with a crooked smile.  Even as he said this he was stripping off his clothes, his mouth reaching for more hungry kisses, his hands then tearing at the string on Hawke's pants.

"My house.  Let them hear," the mage growled hotly into Fenris' mouth, pulling the elf's tunic up over his head and throwing it - somewhere.  Finally free of their clothes, Hawke lifted Fenris off the floor, and the elf was only too happy to wrap his legs around his waist.  They pushed together, moaning, mouths hungry and sloppy, hands clawing at each other.  Hawke backed Fenris up to the table again, and a bottle of wine crashed to the floor as he sat the elf down, its contents spreading across the stones, making a stain of guilt neither would be able to hide from later. They laughed together at the sound, but didn't slow anything. 

Fenris dug his heels in, his hands gripping the edge of the table for support.  He pulled Hawke's body closer, feeling his swollen cock hard up against his own, and groaned.  They kissed again, mouths hot and slippery, tongues tasting and caressing.  Hawke's hands touched Fenris everywhere, feeling the muscles of his chest and arms, fingers tracing spirals down to his abdomen and hips.  Fenris, hands pulling at Hawke's back, moved, pushing against the mage, and breathed into his hair, "... please."   
  
Hawke paused and moved to look at him, a knowing gleam in his eye.  "No foreplay tonight, _da'mi_?"  He said, barely containing a laugh.  Fenris was always this honest about his need and Hawke had teased him before. "Don't mock me, _apostate_ , or I'll leave you to finish this alone," Fenris growled back, even as he tilted his mouth against the mage's for another kiss.  Now Hawke did laugh, and pulled him close. "No, you won't, Fenris," he whispered, pushing his hips against him.  Fenris closed his eyes and moaned, and Hawke made a noise that sounded more than willing, and reached for the vial hanging from a cord around his neck.

Fenris bit his lip, watching as the mage poured tiny drops of oil over his fingers, then down along his shaft.  He trembled with anticipation, and didn't hide it when Hawke looked up at him.  The mage took time enough to tease the elf's entrance, pushing slicked fingers inside to stretching and caressing, pulling whimpers from his lover's throat, then he covered Fenris' mouth with his own and pushed his leaking cock into him in one desperate stroke.

Fenris' body exploded with sensation and he cried out into the kiss.  Pleasure and pain from somewhere deep, coursing through his groin, through his hips, spreading to his thighs.  Hawke pushed again, harder.  Fenris clung to him, his face buried in his neck, nearly incoherent with the waves of pleasure spreading through him as the mage's perfect movements rubbed against the right places inside him.  Hawke's thrusting got faster, his breath more labored, the sweat fell from both of them as they rutted and twisted against each other, no time or need for tenderness and affection.  Fenris let go of Hawke with his hands and gripped the edges of the table now banging obscenely against the wall.  He lifted his hips, begging, reaching, moaning. "Close, Hawke... please.... " Hawke moved his hand between them and wrapped calloused fingers around the elf's swollen length, his grip solid and firm, thumb sliding through precome and over the head with each stroke. "Come for me," Hawke growled, thrusting hard into the bundle of nerves that had Fenris seeing stars. "Hawke..." Fenris threw his head back, arching into the mage's fist as he came, shuddering and gasping as Hawke pushed into him again and again, and long white ropes of release fell across his chest. 

The blankets crumpled in his fists ... and he flung open his eyes.  

It only took a moment for the sweat soaked elf to realize he'd been dreaming.  He lay in the twisted blankets catching his breath, eyes closed, trying to remember as much as he could before the gray haze of awakening swallowed it for good.

 _The crush of his mouth, needy and demanding, his dark, damp hair in tangled spikes across his forehead.   The smell of him, the taste of him, the muscles of his chest..._   Fenris lifted a hand to his own chest, happy to find that the only mess he had made was in the dream. 

It was slipping away now... 

His fingers moved to his neck and found the matching vial of oil he wore. He smiled, remembering the look in Hawke's eyes the day he had given him his. "My wicked elf," he had said, pulling the loop of cord over his head. Wherever he was, Fenris hoped he still wore it.

Maker, he missed him.  Varric had said he'd be back any day, and that would have to be soon enough.  Fenris closed his eyes, clutching the vial, and drifted back to sleep.

*******

The next morning, the keep's surgeon came for a visit.  She was kind and quiet, and tended to the elf quickly before pronouncing him well enough to get out of bed.  Three days was too many and Fenris was grateful enough to allow her to help him bathe and dress.  As a testament to her profession, she never mentioned the lyrium, and neither did he.  Then she fixed his arm in a sling and bid him well before backing out of the room.

Finally alone, the weight of his surroundings hit the elf like a blow.  This was Hawke's room.  He would decide later whether to thank or pommel Varric for that, but he recognized immediately the Amell crest stitched into the front of a satchel on the floor, and Hawke's bed clothes folded neatly in a chair.

_Stupid elf, don't..._

He took a few steps and reached for them.  He let his fingers trace across the soft silken texture, remembering a muscled chest and warm heartbeat beneath. 

The elf palmed his white hair across the top of his head and walked to a nearby window.  The blizzard was gone and he could see soldiers hacking at straw dummies down below.  A beautiful woman barked orders in every direction.  He contemplated the last few days and the journey from Amaranthine.  Now it seemed like madness.  Hawke had left him behind.  Left him.  What was he even doing here?  He broke away from the window, pacing the dark carpet of the room.

Still pacing, doubt and irritation began to worm their way into his head.  He thought about the note he'd found.  _I could not put you in danger again._   What did that even mean?  Hawke had never put him in danger.  Every fight, every battle, every single enemy Fenris had ever chosen to face, he was there because he put himself there, not because the Champion of Kirkwall did.  He mentally flinched, the title suddenly smelling more of arrogance than it ever had before.  Was that what he thought?  That Fenris had just been his shadow all this time, trailing around behind him, doing as he was told? 

_Don't, Fenris._

What had begun as the very clear idea that he'd been left behind to be protected, as objectionable as that was on its own, had now begun to tumble around in his head, picking up bits and pieces of doubt and suspicion on its way.  Hawke had left him to keep him out of danger, or so he said, but the more Fenris thought about it, the more he was sure that what Hawke was really doing was putting something he cherished in a safe place to be sure of its whereabouts upon his return.  Like a favorite book, or a gilded box of jewels.  Like a pet... or even a slave.

_Stop this, Fenris._

Yes, like a slave.  How was this different?  Danarius had done this very thing.  No, it was not as pretty and comfortable, it was not filled with kind words and endearments, long languid nights of passion and fulfillment, but he had robbed the elf of any of his own decisions, any choice in his fate, any regard for his strength as a man and a warrior, just the same. 

_He loves you.  He would not do this to you._

Fenris pounded his fists to his temples.  NO!  At least as a slave he had _known_ he was dying inside.  This was wrong.  He had never seen it coming.  Maker, how could he have been so blind?

He stopped then in the center of the room, and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, calming what had begun to turn into rage.  No.  This would end today.  He did not escape the crippling, shackled hell of Tevinter slavery just to relinquish himself, blindly, to a charming _apostate_ who could crumble him with a kiss.  He did not belong to Danarius, and he would not belong to Garrett Hawke.  He needed neither.   He _needed_ no one.

_Then why did you nearly kill yourself to get to him?_

"Enough!" Fenris shouted at the empty room, crushing the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying without success to silence the relentless, lying voice in his head.  The lyrium glowed and ebbed, he looked again at the floor, flexing and stretching his fingers and palms, coldly and deliberately pushing the rush of emotion aside.

His gaze caught the scarlet favor tied to his wrist.  Devotion?  No, a brand, or a collar about his neck.  It suddenly disgusted him, and unable or unwilling to see that his resentment was hiding a deeper truth, he untied the knot and held the worn and familiar fabric in his hand.

_Don't.  You need him..._

"Fuck you," he said coldly at the whispering doubt, and dropped the red cloth to the floor.

*******

Just then, Cole burst into the room uninvited.  Fenris looked up to see his eyes fixed on the pool of red at his feet.

"I wanted to help. The red is everything.  He hurts you, and he heals you," he said quietly.  Their eyes met and Fenris was sure there was more, but it was too late and he didn't care.  He brushed past him and left the room for good.

* * * * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


	4. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not surprisingly, Fenris tries to run from his feelings.

Fenris almost tripped over Varric coming out of Hawke's room.  "Varric," he said, relieved he wouldn't have to go find him.  The keep was enormous and Fenris had only seen one room.

"Hey, Broody, you're out of bed!  How's that arm?"  Varric apparently had not caught on to the elf's foul mood, and the nickname didn't help. 

 The elf frowned down at him.  "I'll mend.  Varric, I need to get back to Amaranthine and I can't travel alone.  Can you arrange for a guard and horses?"

"Whoa, slow down, Fenris.  Hawke will be back soon.  No need to go tearing off just yet," the dwarf said, obvious curiosity in his eyes.  He knew better than to ask.

"Varric, I need to leave. Today.  Can you arrange it or no?"

"Well,  Fenris, I can't.  I mean, there's a war going on.  No way Cullen is going to give up a man, or a horse, to get you back to the city.  You want to tell me what's going on?"

"No, I don't," the elf said abruptly.  "I'll speak to Cullen then.  Where can I find him?"

Varric reluctantly led Fenris down the long corridors and across the courtyard.  They climbed the stairs where they had to, all without speaking.  More than once, the dwarf had started to ask, but in the end resisted.  He had seen the elf like this, and there was just no point.   When they arrived at the commander's door, he finally couldn't help it.  "Fenris, Cullen's pretty important around here.  Are you sure you want to do this?  I mean, you can wait for Hawke, and whatever it is, he'll find you a horse and a guard.  Why don't you just take it easy for a minute and..."

Fenris spun at him with clenched fists, the white-blue glow illuminating the hall.  "Varric, you mean well, and I thank you for your unnecessary concern."  He took a breath through clenched teeth then, and Varric took a step back.  "But I am leaving _today_ , and I feel it only fair to warn you that the next person who suggests I wait for Hawke for _anything_ will have their throat removed from their neck before they finish the words."

Varric sighed. Over the years he had grown used to Fenris' outbursts, and not-so-subtle references to the power the lyrium gave him.  "Whatever you say, Fenris.  I'm only a messenger."  He knocked once at the Commander's door, then led them both inside.

The commander's office was neat, and the sun shined through the window behind him casting spears of light on the walls and floor.  Cullen looked precisely the same, although Fenris was disturbed to see that he had forsaken his templar armor.

Varric and Fenris said nothing as Cullen finished his business with a subordinate.  When the soldier had finally left, the Commander took his chair and gestured for them to sit.

"Fenris, it is... good to see you.  How are you feeling?" he asked, a bit formally.

"I will mend, Commander.  I am glad you are well.  You have left the Templar Order I see.  The Inquisition will do well at your command."

Cullen said nothing at the compliment, carefully arranging the rest of the meeting in his mind.  When he finally spoke, it was tinged with annoyance.  "Are you here to help, Fenris, or for some other reason?"

The Commander made little effort at subtlety and Fenris bristled at the suggestion, but he realized that Cullen had something he needed that he wasn't going to get it if he let himself be baited.

"I came to help, but as you can see, I am no longer able.  I've been told my arm will not be strong enough for my sword for many days.  I would like to return to Amaranthine, and I'll need a guard and mount to get there."

Cullen shot a glance at Varric, who shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"Is that right?  Leaving so soon?  I had thought - "

Varric had been waiting for this, and wisely interrupted.  "Commander, do you think we could dig up a horse and a decent swordsman or two?  Fenris has been through enough and I'm sure he just wants to get home."

Cullen was not a man to have sentences finished for him, but being aware of Varric's skill for observation and negotiation, he let it go.  He looked at the dwarf, who avoided his gaze, then back to the elf.

"Fenris, I'm sorry, but I can't.  We need every able body we can get.  It would be two horses and two trained soldiers on a journey that would take at least two weeks by the time of their return.  We simply can't afford the resources."

The Commander stood then, in an ages old sign of dismissal. "You are welcome to whatever comfort the keep can afford until you are well enough to travel alone, or until you join our ranks.  I'm sorry it's not better news.  Please feel free to come see me if there is anything else I can do."

Fenris stood and the two men locked eyes, neither speaking.  A hundred things sped through Fenris' mind, but he said none of them.  Instead, he turned on his heel, knocking Varric out of his way, and left.

*******

An hour later, Fenris sat alone at the bottom of a wooden staircase in the courtyard.  The sun was warm and there was activity in every corner.  It felt good to be in the sun, and he leaned his face up to it, closing his eyes.

He was stuck here, that part he had accepted.  Even if he stole a horse, a wounded elf on the roads alone was asking for trouble he did not want.  Hawke would be back soon, and Fenris thought the keep might be large enough to avoid him, but even that seemed unlikely.  He would have to explain, and there would be words he didn't want to hear, and things he didn't want to say, but in the end he might be helpful in getting him out of here.  He smiled realizing it felt good to dread his return, rather than long for it.

He lowered his face and scanned the courtyard.  There were soldiers and mages of all kinds, everywhere.  He thought he might kill some time and train.  Maybe his bad arm was strong enough for a dagger.  He had always wanted to be a rogue.  He laughed at himself; no, he did not.

A shadow fell across him then and he looked up.  "Hello, Fenris."  The human's face was friendly, and the voice warm.  "Hello," he said, with barely concealed irritation.  "Do I know you?"

"We haven't met, but I did visit while you were recovering," the man said, seating himself next to Fenris on the stair.  "I'm not too fond of these formalities, but I've been told the use of my name is no longer proper.  You may call me Inquisitor, or Herald if you prefer."

Fenris turned his face to him.  He was immediately struck with how relaxed and confident the man was in his role.  He did not seem to effuse the power or corruption that so often came with things like this.

Fenris leaned back on his elbows and turned his face back up to the sun.  "Thank you for the hospitality, Inquisitor," he said, feigning disinterest.  "Is there something I can do for you?"

The Herald smiled. He had heard enough about the elf to expect he wouldn't be impressed.  "As a matter of fact there is," he said gently.  "This is a bit delicate, but please understand that part of what I do here requires that I'm familiar with the people I have to count on, and the things that affect them." 

The warrior said nothing, waiting.

Taking a breath, the man asked, "Are you well, Fenris?"

Fenris lowered his chin and looked sideways at the man.  "Am I well?  I am certain the surgeon reports to you, Herald.  What is it you want to know?"

"Only that, we weren't expecting you, Fenris.  And you're here, you've been injured, and I recently learned you wish to leave.  I am concerned, nothing more." The Herald said, realizing instantly how transparent he was.

Fenris sat upright then and turned to face him.  "You are concerned about your precious Champion and whether or not I intend to interfere.  I assure you, Herald, that I do not.  What I intend is to put as much distance between us as the keep will allow."

The Inquisitor stood then, speaking to the elf in quiet sincerity.  "Fenris, whatever it is, I am sorry.  War does things to people, and I regret that it has done something to you.  You are right that I am concerned about Hawke.  Perhaps even more so now," he said.

Fenris found that he appreciated the kindness, and the subtle acknowledgment that his decision to leave might make a difference to Hawke. He stood, dusting off his clothes, readjusting the sling.

The Herald continued, "When I heard you were here I had hoped to recruit you.  You are a formidable warrior, or so I'm told.  It would be good to have you as an ally.  However, your injuries will require time, and Maker willing, we will have finished our work here before then."

Fenris tilted his head a bit and studied the man.  He may indeed like him after all.  "It is regrettable that I cannot join you. I would like nothing more than to offer my sword." Then, "If there's nothing else?" he asked, turning to leave.

"Yes, there is actually.  Just one other thing," the Herald all too politely insisted. 

Fenris scowled.  There was always one other thing.  Perhaps they intended to make him wash dishes or clean stables for his board.

"I am at your service, Inquisitor.  What is it?" Fenris drawled, hinting at sarcasm.

"The members of the Inquisition have come from all corners of Thedas, Fenris, including the Imperium."

Fenris tensed. "Is that so?" he said, obviously annoyed and wanting the conversation to end.

The Inquisitor offered a sigh of his own frustration. "You don't make anything easy, do you Fenris?" he said. 

Fenris opened his mouth to retort, but changed his mind.  "Herald, I am sorry.  These last few days...  I am indeed more hostile than you deserve.  Forgive me.  Please, continue."

"It's alright, Fenris. I have thicker skin than you think," he said smiling back.  The Inquisitor gestured at the ground indicating they walk while they talked, and Fenris stepped away from the stairs with him. 

The noise of the courtyard was insistent, but they could hear each other well enough. They walked with no particular destination, and Fenris waited for what couldn't be something he wanted to hear about recruits from the Imperium. "There is a Tevinter mage among us, Fenris," the man began, "and I didn't want you to be caught off guard.  I'm aware that you have good reason to be spiteful, but he is an ally, and a good man, and I would hope..." he trailed off.

Fenris laughed gently in understanding, "You would hope that I don't rip his lungs from his chest in a dark corridor, Inquisitor?"  He laughed again.  "There is no need to worry.  I would bring no harm to anyone in the keep," he said, meaning it and kicking a stone out of the path.

The Herald smiled warmly at the elf's macabre humor, and decided to press on.  "Yes, and thank you, but ..." then he he stopped, looking down at his hands. Fenris followed his gaze, noticing the green glow for the first time. He looked suddenly less like a leader of armies, and more like a man.  Fenris was curious at the change. 

The Inquisitor took a breath and looked up at him. "Dorian Pavus is his name, Fenris, and he is my _amatus_ , " he said softly, using the Tevene he knew Fenris would understand. "I had hoped you might try to accept him, rather than avoid him."

Fenris just stared at a him.  They were lovers.  _Accept him?_

The elf needed to think about that, and didn't answer as they continued to walk.  "May I ask you something, Herald?"

"Of course." The Herald had already learned enough about Fenris to expect a difficult question.

When Fenris spoke, it was very deliberate. "When you fight Corypheus, will you take this _Pavus_ with you?"

The Herald stopped, and Fenris turned to face him, two steps away.  There was something like pity in his eyes, it seemed to the elf.  He didn't care for it, but it was less ugly coming from the man he had decided to like.

"Fenris, I don't know Garrett Hawke very well, but I do know his character.  I could only guess - "

"Please, Herald," Fenris interrupted.  _"Will you take him with you_?"

The Inquisitor paused, searching for the right words, and there were none.  "Yes, Fenris.  I will.  He is a fearless and talented mage, and his magic has put odds in our favor before.  That doesn't mean -"

"So, you would not command him to stay, for fear of his safety?"

"I care for him, Fenris.  I do not command - " and the man cut himself off, the elf's point, crystal clear.

Fenris offered a wry smile, such that it was. "Thank you for your honesty. I suppose if there is a decent Tevinter ever to be found from that festering sewer, it would be a man like you who found him.  I will do my best."

"I'm sorry, Fenris," the Inquisitor said again as the elf walked away.

"No need, your Worship," Fenris threw over his shoulder, attempting to dissolve the uncomfortable sympathy.  "Time marches on."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading :)


	5. Play Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with the Inner Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kind reader, Nutella0Mutt, for reminding me to lose the sling.   
> Comments are awesome! <3

* * * * * * *

A few hours later, Fenris was sitting on the edge of the bed in his new quarters.  Varric had, as always, accepted Fenris' apology and made the arrangements.  Apparently, being the lover of the Champion - or former lover, or whatever he was now - had afforded him some consideration that he was not too proud to take advantage of, and the room was more than sufficient.  It was small, but neat and very clean.  A fire burned on one side and there was a bed with a thick rug beside it, a desk, and a small chest in the corner.  The leather bags he had carried up the mountain with him were sitting on the floor, leaning against one leg of the desk, and the Blade of Mercy gleamed in the firelight, resting safely in a corner as well.  There was no window, but the elf didn't plan to do anything but sleep here, so it made no difference.  It was not the stables, and he was grateful.

After leaving Hawke's room behind, Fenris had spent the day wandering the keep.  He didn't know how long he'd be here, but it wouldn't help to get lost, so he took his time and learned the routes.  He was confident now that he could find the Commander, the kitchen and dining hall, practice yard, the bath, and the surgeon, if he needed to.  He also knew where Varric's quarters were, and of course, off the main hall, the rooms of the Inquisitor, and the stairs to the undercroft. 

Thoughts of Hawke still plagued him.  In all the hours of wandering, he'd replayed their next conversation a hundred times or more in his mind.  It never ended well.  Sometimes Hawke raged, other times he drew him into an embrace.  The only thing Fenris was consistently sure of, was that he left, when it was done, alone.

When he'd returned finally to his room, someone he must find and thank had cleaned and repaired his armor and it hung loosely from a peg on the wall.  The fall down the mountain had left it in shreds and he was impressed with the craftsmanship that saved it.  He was also pleased to find several pieces of keep-appropriate clothing in a tilted pile on the desk.  There were even boots in the corner, and he laughed quietly at the inability of humans and dwarves to understand.

He sat there on the edge of the bed for several minutes before he realized he was putting off the inevitable.  He could, of course, ignore the inner circle and go find a meal with the infantry.  The food would not be as good, but he suspected the company would be better.  Alas, he had unwittingly given up the option when he had stupidly assured the Herald he would attempt being friendly to his mage.

He couldn't imagine it, really.  Shake hands with a Tevinter mage?  Have a meal with him?  Be  _nice_  to him?  Perhaps the Herald had found it funny, but he was not entirely joking about ripping his lungs from his chest.  He would have of course, at any other time, without thinking twice.  Before Kirkwall, he would have done it even sooner.   But he had learned, from Hawke, that all crows are not black.  He had fallen helplessly in love with a mage, after all.  One that he would have just as easily killed a year before.  He had learned, and he had grown, and the Herald - who had given up everything to follow this path in a quest to save all of Thedas - had humbled himself to ask for his kindness, and duty meant that he would give it.  He stood from the bed, thoroughly annoyed with the impending obligation, dressed, leaving the surgeon's sling behind, and went in search of the hall.

*******

The dining hall was much the same as any found in Thedas.  A large room with a stone floor, and stone walls.  The low, wood beam ceiling was connected to the floor every fifteen feet or so with a supporting timber, from which hung lamps or baskets, or sometimes forgotten cloaks and scabbards.   The tables and chairs stretched out in long rows.  They had once been rough sawn wood, but had been worn smooth in places from the years of constant use.  On the far wall was a giant fireplace and a fire burned warmly, casting the dimly lit space in long shadows.  Fenris imagined a time gone by when the keep had seen more regular use and the room was filled with the banter of soldiers and the tink and clang of tankards being drunkenly bumped together.  Tonight, however, the room was empty of diners, save for the five ranking members of the Inquisition.  Each of them in turn looked up at him as he crossed the room, and the scrutiny was almost unbearable.

"Fenris," Varric broke the silence warmly.  Fenris had a fleeting horrible thought of what Skyhold would have been like for him if Varric hadn't been here.  He made a mental note to thank him when he could.

"Varric," Fenris nodded at him and moved to the seat he offered.  Varric made introductions.  "I'm not sure who you know or not, but this is Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast."  The elf recognizes the woman he had seen from the window that morning.  She is quite stunning, but exudes an air of authority, and disapproval, even through her polite smile, that is difficult to ignore.

"You have met Commander Cullen of course," and the two nod at one another, "his Worship the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste... or something like that."  "Herald," Fenris smiles at the man, and Varric continues, "and lastly, Dorian Pavus, battle mage of the Inquisition." 

Fenris was certain he had seen the barest collective wince when the last introduction was made.  So, the members knew of his history and he wasn't really surprised.  He guessed there had been more than one round-table discussion of himself since his arrival at the keep.

Dorian stood and the two locked eyes.  Dorian was dressed in fine Orlesian battle armor, his left shoulder bare. His hair and moustache were neatly trimmed, and Fenris recognized the confidence that came from aristocracy immediately... and also something else. He was, in a word, disarmingly handsome, and the elf decided it was only that, that he was reading in the mage's eyes.  A thousand words about history, hate, and oppression were left unsaid, and that was fine for both of them - for now.  

For a moment, no one breathed, and then Fenris smiled at the mage, and said with perfect sincerity, " _Avanna_ , Altus Pavus," with a nod of his head.

Dorian didn't miss a beat, his skills at diplomacy likely mastered before the age of two. " _Avanna_ , Fenris," he smiled back.  "How very delightful that you could join us.  May I suggest the ham?  It is quite a bit more palatable than some I've had elsewhere."  He gestured to the elf to sit, and they both did, the tension finally falling away from everyone.

Fenris felt the raw edge of the encounter soften a bit, and he breathed and allowed himself to be drawn into conversation.  Varric whispered something to a young woman, and she returned minutes later with a plate of food and set it before Fenris.  There was no ham.  He ate everything as he talked, feeling as though he hadn't had real food in weeks, mostly because he hadn't.

In a rare expression of the Maker's humor, Dorian was seated directly across from him, the Herald at his side.  Once or twice Fenris saw them speaking to each other in the quiet way couples do, and the unwanted ache for Hawke soon followed.  He pushed it away.  Cullen was at the end on that side of the table, Varric was at the elf's right, then Cassandra.  The two more formal soldiers spoke in hushed tones about matters of strategy and tactics, politics and planning, and Fenris hardly heard a word.  The remaining four of them began with the weather, but the inevitable questions finally beat their way to the surface, and begged to be answered.

"Fenris, you must know we are curious.  May I ask you about the lyrium?" the Herald prodded politely.  Minutes ago he and the elf had caught eyes, and the Inquisitor had offered a silent look of thanks.

Fenris felt Varric shift in the chair next to him.  He smiled inwardly at the dwarf's obvious wariness, and his own good fortune to have friendships that had survived his temper long enough to see it coming.  "Of course, Herald. What would you like to know?" he offered.  This was, of course, difficult for Fenris.  He stiffened slightly, waiting.  If they wanted to know about the lines in his flesh, he could tell them.  If they moved anywhere near Danarius and what he had gone through to get them, the fragile diplomacy between he and the Tevinter would undoubtedly crumble. 

"Do they hurt?" the Herald asked softly.

"Yes, they do."

"That is... unfortunate," the Herald said with sadness.  He liked the Elvhen warrior, and the idea that he lived in constant pain was tragic to him.

Fenris scowled a bit at this. "I've grown accustomed to it, Inquisitor.  There is no need for sympathy, but thank you."

"Is it true you can reach  _into_  a man?" from Dorian.  The mage seemed almost giddy with curiosity.

Fenris let himself smile, always aware of his promise to the Herald, "Yes, it is true.  The lyrium allows me to phase through the Fade, then through any solid object," he explained to the mage, quite sure this time there was something behind his eyes.

From the end of the table, an annoyed Cullen joined the conversation.  "So, your flesh moves to the Fade, and then back when you're done.  What does it bring back with it?" he asked the elf, clearly an accusation that Fenris might be abusing the magic.

"It brings nothing, Commander."  Fenris had to remind himself that this was a social gathering, and the Herald himself had asked that it be pleasant.  He seethed at the former Templar's insinuation, but disguised it well.  "I know little of the ritual that was drawn on to do this to me, but I assure you, nothing has ever come back, and I have never been tempted to try."

"There is always a first time with bad magic," Cassandra threw in.

Fenris leaned forward, looking around Varric to meet her gaze, and thought carefully.  It was in the woman's nature to challenge things, and Fenris knew.  Words of unnecessary self-defense came to mind, but instead he said simply, "I couldn't agree more, Seeker."

"Will you show us?" Dorian asked, breaking the tension for everyone but Varric.  The dwarf's had reached explosive limits by this time and he'd had enough.  "Alright, Sparkler, let's not get carried away..."

Fenris had been drinking from his wine and promptly spit it out across the table in a poorly stifled laugh.  Perhaps it was the now vanishing nervous tension, but he then began to laugh harder than even Varric had ever seen.  Dorian was of course mortified at the display and said so, only serving to encourage the elf.  When he could finally breathe it was just long enough to say, "Sparkler?" and then the Herald and Varric, and finally the embarrassed mage, joined in.  The Herald of course, watched while he laughed.  Thedas was in serious trouble, and it would be these men and their peers who did anything to change that.  Laughter was good.  They needed the camaraderie and the release.  He mentally breathed a sigh of relief.

Once Fenris was calm again, he looked at Dorian through his fallen hair and offered an apology.  Dorian huffed, "Don't be ridiculous, Fenris.  The party was an unmitigated bore until you arrived," he said back, smile wide and genuine. They locked eyes then for the barest moment, and the mage looked away first this time.

The evening went on as expected after that.  More food was brought, and more wine.  They told tales of conquests and talked about what lie ahead.  They could relax together, and the Herald of Andraste was pleased.  After all, none of them had time to be unsure of any other.  Fenris, with his wounded arm, may not be fighting at their side, but the knowledge of resolved conflict would be good for everyone.

Fenris finished his wine and let Varric refill his glass.  "Why don't you show 'em, Broody?" he whispered as he leaned over to pour the wine, never expecting he would.

Fenris scowled at him sideways, but wine does what it does, and Fenris found himself overcome with a need to impress them all.  And so, he began to call on the lyrium. 

The spirals of his good arm mostly, but really all of them, began to glow.  He held his arm over the table and willed the power into it, the liquid metal opening the Fade.   The white-blue light reflected off the table, casting odd shadows and an eerie pallor back on the elf's face.  Then, as all five of the members, now silent, looked on in awe, Fenris' hand and forearm lost all the color of muscle and bone, becoming a glowing blue vapor of what it was.  He slowly moved his forearm back and forth through the goblet twice before resting it back on the table.  It took only a moment for the light to recede, and Fenris took a deep breath.

Varric was thrown.  He'd never seen the elf show off, or even demonstrate the strange, torturing power before.  He figured it was time to put the wine away.

The others were nearly speechless, but for Dorian, who never was.  "Absolutely stunning," he said breathlessly.  And this time, Fenris did not look up, feeling the color rising to his face.

"That's very impressive, Fenris," from the Inquisitor.  "Is the pain worse when you do that?  Does it tire you?  Please, forgive my curiosity.  It's just really quite remarkable."

"No need to apologize, Herald.  Yes, the pain is worse but not unmanageable, and no, it does not tire me."  He offered a smile and took a deep breath.  He needed to get out of here, before he made a fool of himself.  "I hope I've resolved your curiosity," he said to everyone, standing.  "I'm very tired, and I'll take my leave.  Thank you all for your kindness and welcome.  Good night," he said, then after listening to the group's well-wishes, he headed across the room to the door.

Varric followed him and then stopped him out of earshot from the others.  "Fenris, we've had word from a forward scout.  Hawke's party plans to be back tomorrow.  I thought you'd want to know."  Varric sighed, expecting something harsh, but he had to ask. "Hey, are you holdin' up alright?  That thing with the lyrium..."

"Yes, I know," the elf responded, more than a little surprised himself, and not willing to tell Varric that he'd been showing off because some Tevinter mage was making eyes at him.  "I don't know what came over me.  Too much wine, perhaps.  Now they've seen it and they can quit whispering about it.  I'm fine, Varric."

Varric turned back toward the table and Fenris put a hand on his shoulder.  "Varric," the dwarf looked up at him.  "This place, these people, I would be quite out of my element if you hadn't been here.  I am in your debt, my friend."

Varric smiled up at him.  "We've been looking after each other for awhile, Fenris.  Whatever I can do, just ask.  And Fenris, it's none of my business, but I've gotta tell you.  You and the mage mean a lot to me.  He loves you, Fenris.  Try to remember that tomorrow."  Varric threw him a wistful smile, then walked back to the table and sat down.

* * * * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>    
> Thanks as always, for reading :)


	6. Two Kinds of Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Dorian in a dark and quiet hall. What could go wrong?

 

* * * * * * *

 _He loves you, Fenris ._ If that were all that mattered, Fenris would be walking toward Hawke's room, not his own.   He felt his chest tighten and his breath stick in his throat, and walked faster. Maker, he didn't want to do this tonight.  He needed to get Hawke out of his head and sleep off the wine. 

Dorian of course, had no way of knowing that the warrior's head was spinning or what a perfectly wrong time this would be to approach him, and so he did. 

The elf was just steps from his door when he heard the voice.  The corridor was mostly dark, save for a torch here and there on the wall.  Fenris heard the footsteps just before the voice and his fists had already started to glow in an automatic response to the unknown when Dorian spoke.

"Fenris, please forgive the intrusion.  If you have a moment?" 

The elf turned to face him, letting the blue light recede.  "I'm very tired, Dorian.  Can it wait?"  _I've had quite enough of you tonight._

"I just wanted to thank you for your good grace and decency tonight.  I can't imagine what it took for you..."

Fenris advanced on Dorian before he, himself realized what he was doing.  The mage backed against the wall instinctively, too slow with a barrier cast to prevent a glowing blue hand from pressing against his shoulder to hold him there. 

"No, mage, you can't imagine." Fenris leaned in, very close, seething.  "Since you insist, I'll explain.  I am not your friend, Dorian.  And you needn't feel any obligation to be mine.  No, you can't imagine what it is like for me to share wine with a Tevinter mage.  You can't imagine what it is like to pretend I don't know you have enslaved my people.  And you cannot begin to fathom the strength of will it takes to laugh with you while I remember the magister who burned this agony into my flesh and stole my life. 

"Fenris, this is unnecessary.  I meant only - " 

"Shut up, Dorian.  You came to me, now let's be done with it.  You're here because you seek redemption.  You are here because you thought that if the former slave could look past your lineage and forget, maybe others would, too.  Well, Tevinter, I cannot.  You still breathe because I respect the man you call amatus, and for no other reason.  You will find no absolution here. 

Dorian's wit and sharp tongue had been stilled.  Some part of him, the very part that brought him here, felt he deserved every word that Fenris said.  Tevinter was an ugly place, and it had committed crimes against all of Thedas.  Now was not the time for angry retorts.  Fenris had a right to his anger, and he would let him have it. 

Dorian lifted his eyes and simply said, "You are right, of course.  On behalf of the Imperium, I can only beg your forgiveness, Fenris." 

The elf had been steeled for a fight, an angry denial, a vomit of excuses and deflections of blame. Anything but an admission. 

Fenris released his shoulder, and let the lyrium dim.  He stared at Dorian, and took a deep breath, his mind racing with hate, and understanding, and the unavoidable fact of the Herald's trust in the mage.  Fenris was contemplating an apology for his rage, when Dorian's resolve slipped, for just a fraction of a second, and his eyes fell to Fenris' lips. 

The elf, of course, saw him falter.  Dorian recognized his mistake and tried to look away, but it was too late.  Fenris' gaze went dark and he stepped forward, pausing only until their eyes met again, before he pressed the mage hard against the wall and crushed his mouth with with his own. Every warning against self-destruction that Fenris had ever known was screaming in his head, and he didn't care.  Something unearthly in him needed this, and he used his tongue to open Dorian's mouth, breathing in the taste of his breath, then moaning against his lips when he felt the mage surrender and drawn him in.  "Fenris, no..." Dorian plead weakly into the kiss, unable to break away and unable to make himself want to.  Fenris only growled, one hand pulling the smart Tevinter mouth harder into his, the other biting fingers into the warm skin of his naked shoulder. 

The kiss went on, hands searching and touching, mouths sliding and pressing and tasting.  Dorian gripped the elf's hips and pulled him to him, searching for the contact of his hardness against his own.  He groaned in agonizing shame when he felt it, and the sound spurred Fenris on.  He deepened the kiss again, moving his hands down Dorian's chest to his waist, then his hips, fingers reaching for him.  Dorian reeled in anticipation of the touch...  and it never came.  Fenris was still. The mage felt the change and opened his eyes, stunned, breathless and sorry, but aching in spite of trying not to.  Maker, what had just happened? _What had he done_? 

Fenris had taken a step back and was looking at him through rumpled white hair, catching his breath.  Dorian, attempting to calm his ravaged senses, finally looked up at him.  The change in the elf was not what he was expecting.  "Oh, Fenris, " he said, in stunned realization.  "You are indeed tragic." The elf was trembling, hands at his sides.  All signs of the passion and arrogance he'd displayed were gone.  He was utterly defeated.  Taking a deep breath, Fenris began to pace, rubbing his hands on his face, obviously angry, less obviously confused.  The silence drew out until Dorian said quietly, "You _need_ him, don't you?" 

Fenris stopped and looked up him, eyes narrowed, voice low.  "I need nothing, Tevinter," he said, but the slump of his shoulders told another story entirely.  "Fenris, you can tell me," Dorian offered, really unsure of what else to say. 

"Why you? Of all the beings in Thedas, why would I tell you?" 

"Hmm, an interesting question," Dorian said back, having decided that, once again, charm and wit might be the best way out of this, for both of them.  It certainly seemed like a better idea than fleeing into the darkness of the hall...  or any of the other things he couldn't shake from his mind. 

A casual glance at their surroundings revealed no chairs, so Dorian slid his back down the wall and sat on the floor, knees bent to his chest.  He gestured that Fenris join him, and having already made too many bad choices for it to matter, the elf did. 

"Well, you see, Fenris, by the good grace of being from the Imperium, I have exclusive knowledge of the real workings of men who fall in love, which is often quite contrary to the fluff and romance the men of the south daydream about."

Fenris allowed himself a smile.  "The good grace of being from the Imperium? That's a subject worth discussion." 

Dorian pushed on.  "Yes, well, let's not.  Moving ahead.  It was not acceptable to be with one man for too long, Fenris, and so...  I bring certain experience to bear." 

Now Fenris laughed.  "You were a harlot, then? I'm not sure how that will help, Tevinter."

"Indeed, I was.  Who could say no to this staggering veneer of perfection?" Dorian bragged, only half kidding.   Fenris laughed, in the subtle way that he does, as much at the mage's wit, as at the absurdity of having a conversation with him on the cold stones of the corridor.

Dorian spoke again, this time without the exaggeration, and Fenris listened.   "Look, Fenris.  The point is, I've seen what you're dealing with.  Love comes in many colors, elf, and the need that you feel doesn't have to be a weakness.  How do you know he doesn't want to be needed?"

Fenris thought about this, but only for a moment.  "The only need I have, Dorian, is to stop being treated like a possession.  He is the Champion of Kirkwall.  Everyone that comes near him ends up consumed by him.  I won't let that happen to me," he finally said.  "I told you; I need nothing."

They sat there quietly for a minute, the impulsive kiss forgotten for now.  "He left me behind." Fenris said, repeating it for what seemed the thousandth time, to no one in particular.  Dorian sighed.  "Yes, I had heard.  A rather unfortunate choice on his part." He thought for a minute.  "You should tell him, you know.  Tell him you need him, and that you fear what it's done.  Maybe he'll surprise you." The mage continued to try to make his point, and the elf continued to ignore it.

"Dorian, I don't need  - " and then he stopped, shaking his head, accepting the futility.

Fenris stood then, dusting off, offering his hand to the mage to help him up.  "I apologize for losing my temper, Dorian.  I really don't think you have any idea what goes on between Hawke and I, but it was decent of you to try," he said as the mage stood and straightened his clothes. Dorian faced him then, "Think nothing of it.  I suppose I am happy to still be breathing," he said, mocking Fenris just enough to irritate him.   Fenris flinched when the mage raised his fingertips to the elf's cheek.  "Tell him, Fenris," he said softly, and turned to walk away.

The Tevinter had taken only five steps when he pivoted back around.  "Oh, one other thing..." Fenris looked back at him before he went through the door to his room.  Dorian had raised his fingers to the corner of his mouth, and there was something slightly dangerous about the smile in his eyes.  "I've always wondered about the taste of elf," he said, holding Fenris' gaze.  "It is really quite delicious."  The snarky mage laughed at himself then, bowing his head at Fenris, then turned and disappeared down the hall.

  
*******

Fenris went into his room and closed the door behind him.  He didn't ask himself why he'd kissed a mage from the Imperium, or why he'd bared his soul to one.  He didn't really want to know.

* * * * * * *

 As Tevinters go, Dorian Pavus is a decent man.  He abhors blood magic, oppression, imperialism.  He has no taste for aristocracy or the trappings and entitlements that go with it.  As a man, however, decency was currently fighting a losing battle for position in his mind.

It was late, and the mage was grateful the keep was quiet as he rushed - _escaped_ -  through the hall and out into the chilly night air.  Once outside, he stood for a moment, eyes closed, and let the mountain wind rush over him.  Fool that he was, he had decided flirting with the elf was a good parting shot, and as soon as he said the word "taste," he had remembered exactly that and now here he was, drawing deep breaths of cold air in an almost useless attempt to quiet his treacherous body's response to the memory.

_Fenris... his eyes... his mouth... his breath..._

Maker, stop this, he thought to himself.   You should have run, or at least said no, or even hit him in the jaw with your fist.  What kind of devotion was this?  With a force of will he called the image of the Herald to his mind.  Trevelyan, his beloved.  The man he would die for...

_Lyrium-lined hands on him... crushed against a wall..._

He leaned against the hard stone of the fortress wall, reveling in the calming effect of the cold granite rock against his back.  Yes, breathe.  It was just a kiss, a momentary lapse.

What if he hadn't pulled away?  What if Fenris hadn't broken? 

_He would have touched you... untied your trousers... curled those long, pale fingers around you..._

Dorian groaned into the wind.  The hard, hot warmth in his pants was getting worse, not better, and he pushed the palm of his hand against it, trying to resist.  He was, of course, a man of great self-control, but one must first _want_ to stop, and the mage was quite certain stopping had only flitted through his mind long enough to utter a meaningless "no" against an overwhelming kiss.  He rolled his eyes at himself, admitting the truth with resignation.  The elf would have had whatever he'd wanted of him, and "no" would not have been heard again.

Slowly, breathing became manageable again, and his pulse slowed, and Dorian began to remember the less threatening moments of their encounter.   Fenris was a mess.  How the former slave had seen anything in a _Tevinter_ worth kissing was strange enough, but what had he seen in those eyes in that moment before their lips met?

_Jagged silver-white hair, falling across desperate, pleading eyes..._

Oh yes, _desperate._ Clearly, Fenris had no idea himself of the dynamic that danced around between he and his lover, but Dorian knew.  He had known since first laying eyes on him in the dining hall. 

As a child, Dorian had had seemingly endless lessons on decorum, and manners, and appropriate behavior given the title or authority that might be present in a room, and, as an heir should, he was required to know all there was to know about his magic, and history and diplomacy.  In addition to all of this, as his father had never been able to stop reminding him, he was also expected to take a wife, and to _breed_ , and so, he had been trained in those arts as well.  He could read a lover's face as well as any book.

And he had read the elf's undiscovered need to relinquish control instantly.

The mage shifted against the wall, the bulge against his laces returning.  It had been some time since he'd indulged in dominating a lover and the very idea of it brought on a new rush of arousal, from somewhere deeper, more primal.  Maker, the things he could _show_ him.  Arrogant, powerful Fenris, at his feet, or curled in his lap wanting praise, or pleading to be touched... 

_Kneeling before him, head pulled back in a fistful of hair... pale, beautiful neck revealed..._

Suddenly Dorian lifted his head from the wall, opening his eyes and laughing, almost nervously.   His hands had been clenched into fists, his jaw set hard.  No, this would not do.  Whatever this was, he had to stop it now.  He couldn't do this to Trevelyan.  He wouldn't do it.  Fenris would have to find his way through his secrets, and the real reason he was angry with Hawke, on his own.

He pushed the images, kicking and screaming, out of his head.  It was physical attraction, nothing more.  Birds and bees, and certainly not worth ruining this growing, wonderful thing he felt for the Inquisitor.  No, nothing was worth that.  The Herald made him feel more desired than any man ever had, and it certainly meant more to him than the tempting, needy elf, whose sultry voice and pale skin made his blood boil.

The wind gusted once more, and Dorian pulled himself away from the wall.  He was half frozen now, which was indeed what he had hoped for to begin with.  He headed back toward the entry of the keep and his waiting bed, shivering with the cold, his mind now happily fogged with Trevelyan, as it should be.

He thought of Fenris again only twice before he finally drifted off to sleep.

* * * * * * *


	7. The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke returns
> 
> Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

* * * * * * *

Fenris awoke to the sound of voices in the corridor, and after listening for a moment, learned that Hawke's party had finally been seen on the road approaching the keep.  He dressed quickly, heart racing with dread, or anticipation, or both.  He had replayed this day in his mind more times than he could count, and had decided the safest place to be was the library, high in the central tower of the keep.  He could not outrun the inevitable confrontation with the mage, but he was going to try.

When he got there, the library was gratefully empty.  Normally, important members of the Inquisition's staff could be found working or socializing around the perimeter of the room, but it seemed they, too, had gone to greet the returning scout party.  The library was the middle room of the tower, with the aerie above and main floor below.  An enclosed staircase spiraled around against the outside wall, but the center was empty, so that anyone could lean over a railing and see the floor below.  Rooms spread out from the open center, and in the case of the library, windowed alcoves held shelves of books and an occasional piece of furniture.  Tables and chairs were put where they were needed, too.  Fenris had only been here once before, but he remembered it as a dry, slightly dusty place, filled with the warm smell of books and old wood.

Even with several windows, it was dark and quiet up here, and he was glad for the chance to settle his nerves.  The bare wooden floor creaked as he walked, and he found a window over the courtyard and peered outside.  

The weather was mild in the Frostbacks today.  A few of the trees near the castle were still green and grass could be seen breaking through the tough soil in random patches here and there.  The last few days had been very busy at the keep, and there were stacks of supplies, crates and barrels, buckets of water and collapsing bales of straw stretching into every corner of the courtyard.

As Fenris watched, four armored men on horseback came riding up the slope to the gate.  One wore a cloak of red that spread out behind him in the wind.  The same red as the favor he'd left in a careless pile on the floor.  The rider's dark brown hair was falling loose from the tie that bound it, and he rode just paces ahead of the others.  Fenris felt his chest constrict and a lump rise in his throat, and immediately resented it.  Garrett Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall. 

He watched safely from the window as scores of Inquisition members swarmed Hawke and his party.  They dismounted and their horses were quickly led away to be tended to, and the riders shared welcoming embraces with all who came to greet them.  The elf imagined for a minute how different things could be; the lyrium-lined elf, casually leaning against an archway, waiting for Hawke to find him in the crowd and embrace him.  Instead, he was hiding from their impending confrontation among the books and clutter.

Hawke was a vision to Fenris.  Tall and muscular for a magic-thrower,  and sometimes terrifying in person as his strength and power could often be felt in his demeanor.  Fenris tried and failed to ignore the unbidden memories of the early days in Kirkwall, when he had fallen for the mage, against all better judgment, and had wished and waited for a sign that his feelings were shared.  One corner of his mouth smiled thinking of that night and their first kiss.  Brave Fenris, waiting in the hall for his return.  Only he knew that it was more desperate than brave, and he had nearly lost him for good the next day to a past the elf was still trying to outrun. Today, he wished he had.

He watched Hawke, comfortable now with the attention.  It wasn't always so, but he handled it well.  The Champion was as kind and gracious with his friends and fellows as he was brutal and decisive with his enemies. He narrowed his eyes at the sight. All hail the Champion, he thought with something akin to disgust. 

Someone must have told Hawke that he was here, either now or in some horse-carried dispatch from the keep since he'd arrived four days ago.  The elf watched from above as Hawke scanned the crowd, looking at the faces, then the doorways, then the windows.  Without warning, the intuitive mage cast a glace up the side of the keep at the tower, and his eyes found the elf's an instant later.  In that moment, all of the plans that Fenris had made were undone.

The elf quickly turned away from the window, heart racing, breath caught firmly in his chest.  He needed to get out of the library.  He needed more time.  He needed to have a clear head, not one filled with memories and wistful longing.  Oh Maker, not like this.  Fenris was no fool. It would take a force of will to resist Hawke's pull when he hadn't seen him in days, and now he had no time to gather the strength. He turned for the stairs, but of course, had forgotten that the mage could take them three at a time.  The elf had barely taken a step when the staircase door burst open, and the Champion of Kirkwall came through it.

*******

"Fenris," was all he said.  His unbound hair fell in tangles across his shoulders, and his smile was wide and warm.  The elf thought his heart would stop at the sight of him, and was sure of it when their eyes met.

_Damnit, No! Don't go to him... don't..._

"Champion," he said quietly, in a desperate act of self-control.  Fenris never called him that, and Hawke recognized it immediately, his wind-flushed face tilting slightly in surprise.

The elf moved to one side, putting a table between the two of them.  He wanted to touch his cheek, smooth his hair... _don't..._

"Fenris, what is it?  Come here.  I've missed you," Hawke said, trying a smile again.  He held his arms open to him and Fenris felt his knees tremble, but didn't move.

"Hawke, I - I..."  Fenris struggled to speak.  It was taking every power he had ever possessed to stay rooted where he was, and there was simply nothing left to say the right words.

"Fenris, enough," Hawke said sternly.  "Okay, you're right. I should have taken you with me. But you're here, and we're together. Two weeks since I've seen you and you don't come to greet me?  What is it? "  The road-weary mage was clearly annoyed, and finally the tenderness of his voice had gone.  Fenris could at last breathe.

"I came to join the Inquisition, but fell and I can no longer carry my sword.  There is no one available to ride with me when I leave, so I remain," the words finally came, but not even Fenris believed them.

Hawke stared at him, breathing deeply.  "You are more than a little angry, I see," he said quietly, then with a soft laugh, he raised a brow at Fenris and said, "So, you rode across Ferelden alone, to join the Inquisition, and _not_ to see me?"

_Maker, don't look at me that way._

"Yes, of course.  I - "

Hawke strode the two paces toward the elf, casually pushing the table aside, until they were inches apart.

"Tell me again, Fenris," Hawke said, tiring of the game.  Fenris could smell him now, the leather of his armor, the horse he had rode, the musky scent of a day's journey in a saddle.   The elf's mind was reeling, grasping for anything that would end this nightmare of restraint and get him safely away from surrender.

In the end he found nothing, and the effect Hawke was having on him was making him angry. Trying to stay calm, he could only repeat himself.  "I came to help, and I can't now.  I'll be leaving as soon as I am well enough to fight," he said, unable to look away from the pull of Hawke's gaze.

Hawke narrowed his eyes.  "You're lying, Fenris.  Come here," he said gently, and stepping once toward the elf, he pulled him into his arms.

Fenris didn't have time to say no, or time to be angry, or time to even breathe.   Hawke's arms were around him, and his mouth - _his perfect, crushing, beautiful, mouth_ \- was against his, and he stopped caring about anything, and fell utterly into the strength and warmth of his embrace.  Hawke pulled him in tighter when he felt the elf give, and Fenris kissed him back, his fingers resting on his face, the rush of being with him again now blinding any reason he ever thought he had to resist.  He was  _here_ , and the race across Ferelden was over, the mountain was over, the loneliness was over, and Fenris was safe and _loved_  again.

*******

Too soon, the kiss ended, and Hawke leaned back and looked at him.  He smiled and cupped the elf's face in his hands, as Fenris - breathless, shaking and  _joyous_  - tried to remember to protest.  "Hawke, I  - "   Before the warrior could manage the next words, the mage laughed gently, "Downstairs with you, wicked elf.  It's been too long and - "  he stopped, mid-sentence.  He had grabbed Fenris by the wrist in a mock play of dominance, to lead him down the stairs.

"What is this?" He asked, noticing the red favor was gone.  Fenris looked down at his naked wrist, and the vicious truth of reason began its deadly crawl back into his head.  He felt something break inside, and he longed for the fog of love and reunion he had felt only moments before.

In none of the elf's prepared speeches, or daydreamed scenarios, did the man notice the scarf. Fenris had planned for outrage and anger, maybe even disappointment and tearful regret, but not this. "I left it in your room," he said, unsure of anything else to say, knowing that any effort to explain the thoughts that prompted all of this, would only be met with denial. Hawke didn't need to understand, he just needed to leave him alone.

" _My_  room?"  Hawke asked, catching instantly that they were not bunked together.

Hawke turned away then, boots falling heavy on the floor as he moved. The old planks creaked with his weight as he put several paces between himself and the elf. He ran both hands through the hair at his temples, then one over his rough, unshaven face, before he finally turned back to Fenris.

There was an uneasiness in the caster's voice, the way people sound when they need to ask a question they don't want the answer to. "Have you nothing to say, Fenris?  Are you going to tell me why you don't greet me, and we no longer share a bed? I shouldn't have come alone. I've said so. Let's have this fight and be done with it already."  The mage was choosing words carefully, and Fenris could tell.  He had hoped he wouldn't provoke his anger, but even so, anger might be easier.

"I have a room of my own, Hawke.  I needed to think..." he said, trailing off. There was so much more to say, but he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Fenris, look at me, damnit," Hawke said, his voice now ragged with uncertainty, and their eyes met again.  "You're not wearing the promise.  Please,  _da'mi_ , tell me what is wrong."  Fenris visibly winced at the sound of the endearment.   _Little blade._   He wasn't prepared for Hawke's pain, had selfishly never even considered it, and it was almost enough to break him.

The elf reached into his tunic, producing a faded and worn piece of parchment, carefully folded twice into a square.  He handed it to him, hands shaking, and said nothing.

Hawke took the writing without looking at it at first, and sat against the edge of a table.  He lowered his gaze as his calloused fingers unfolded the square.  The words were faint and worn, and the note had been folded and unfolded so many times the creases were cracked and separating.  Still, he knew what it was.  He carefully folded it together again, handing it back.

"I know. You're angry because I came here without you, but this angry?" he said looking back at the elf. There was something like fear in the caster's eyes, and sadness, and regret. "You would leave me because I can't bear to watch you die?"

"No, Hawke," Fenris said, the anger he'd felt was shifting slowing into something else, and he was struggling to understand, struggling to avoid Hawke's gravity, fighting with desperation to keep his words even and not betray the treacherous doubt that had begun its crawl up his spine. His voice barely more than a whisper, was nonetheless cold. "I am leaving you before I can't anymore. You do not make decisions for me, and it was not your right to keep me from this fight. I will not spend my life collared and waiting for the great Champion to call on me."

The very second the last word was out of his mouth, Fenris knew it was too much.

Hawke stood then, glaring at the elf, his fingers clenched in fists. Fenris took a step back, the mage looming over him even though they were nearly the same height.

"Hawke, I didn't mean - "

"Oh no, elf. Don't. I know what you meant."  The Ferelden paced a few steps before he spoke again, angry and tired.  "Almost seven years I have stood by you, some of it waiting for you like a lost lamb, some of it carrying you when you needed it, and  _all of it_  being drug through the ugliness of your past, waiting for it to consume you again, so you could leave me and then be sorry, and we could once again be what we have always wanted to be for each other."  He took a breath, walking back to Fenris, and looking into his eyes.  "And today, you wish to put me through it again."

What the man said was mostly true, but even so, this was not that. "No, Hawke.  This is not the same. You left me, and yes, it hurt, but that's not all of it.  You do not own me, such that you can decide for me when I fight and when I hide. You _commanded_ me to wait for you, and I take commands from no one."  He didn't want to do this part, the explaining and denial.  Hawke had never been a slave, he could not possibly understand.  
  
"It is the same, Fenris, you just don't see it."  Hawke sighed heavily, rubbing his hands once again over his face.  They looked at each other again before he spoke. "Fenris, I love you.  I was wrong, and I'm sorry, but I would never challenge your strength, or your control of your own destiny.  I meant only to protect you, nothing more.  I thought that's what you wanted."  The mage looked away then, the struggle between disbelief and resignation apparent on his face.

They were only words.  Hawke would never understand, and Fenris was suddenly weary from the fight.  

Swirls of dust motes kicked into shafts of light as the elf crossed the room to the door, and Hawke turned and took a step toward him.  Their eyes met, only two paces between them.

"I'm sorry, Hawke, but I don't need your protection," Fenris said, the deeper truth still only a nagging voice of doubt that he quickly pushed away from his mind.  "You  _left_  me, and I will not sit by and wait for you to leave me again because  _you_  have decided that I should."  

"Fenris, don't..."

But the elf was gone.

* * * * * * *

Dorian stood in the corridor at the door to the Herald's room, his knuckles raised against the door to knock - and then he dropped them for what must be the seventh time.  Confession was not only an unfortunate business, but one that Dorian had managed to avoid for the length of his life thus far.

He groused inwardly at the awkwardness of it all, remembering the things Trevelyan had said about commitment and relationships, giving the altus more credit than he apparently deserved for self-control. 

It wasn't at all about not  _wanting_  devotion.  Dorian had meant every word he'd spoken to the man that fine afternoon when he'd finally talked the Herald out of clothes and ravished his long neglected insides. What pleasure they had found, and ... something more.

He smiled at the joyful memory of the Herald's innocent confession in the Hinterlands.  The Inquisitor, a lover of men!  He'd almost forgotten his father entirely at the news.   _"Excuse me, father.  If you'll wait here whilst I carry the hope of all Thedas to the corner and bend him over a table._ "  The mage laughed at himself, then quickly remembered the seriousness of the task at hand.

No, he had meant every word about wanting more, but recent events lead him to wonder if he knew how, and he would have to reveal his mistake, and explain, and hope his beloved did not throw him from the ramparts for his stupidity.

He leaned his forehead against the rough wood of the door for a moment, then straightened and knocked, and let himself in.

*******

The herald was, as always, seated at his desk at work.  He looked up when Dorian entered, and smiled warmly, laying the quill on the desk.

"Dorian.  I had begun to wonder if I would need to come find you myself."  He stood then and came from behind the desk toward the mage.

It was late and quite dark, save for the candles that glowed gently here and there in the room.  Dorian thought fondly for a moment that the man worked too hard, and too late, and that there was nothing that could be done about it as he carried the future in his hands.

"So, where've you been,  _amatas_?" the swordsman asked, reaching for an embrace.  Dorian winced and withdrew, just a fraction, but enough that the Herald stopped, a look of curiosity falling across his face.

"Dorian, what is it?"  he asked gently.

"Ah, my dear Inquisitor," he smiled, raising a hand to caress Trevelyan's face.  "I - there is - ha!  Dorian Pavus at a loss for words!  Can you imagine!"  he said, laughing in a way that was nervous, and not heartfelt, and entirely transparent to his lover.

"Spit it out, Dorian," from the Herald, who was tired, and not really in the mood for banter.

Dorian turned away, one hand on his hip, the other going to the back of his neck, where he rubbed the short hairs there while he paced and looked at the floor.

The mage's voice was low and serious when he finally spoke.  "It seems there has been an indiscretion for which I must confess, _amatus_."

"An indiscretion.  What have you done, Dorian?" the Inquisitor asked, calmly.  If there was one thing to be said about the man Andraste had left with the mark, it was that he was  _always_  calm.  

The Tevinter's shoulders fell and he turned and met the Herald's gaze.  "I shared a kiss with the elf and I humbly beg your forgiveness," he let out all at once, glad to be done with it.

The silence in the room had begun to be physical when the Inquisitor finally spoke.  "You kissed him?"

"Yes, I - well, no - yes, I did."  Dorian had decided in the hallway that he was going to be man enough to avoid putting this all on Fenris.  It was bad enough he hadn't run from the elf, but worse, he had kissed him back and enjoyed it, and real confession must be honest if nothing else.

"What else?" the Herald asked quietly.

The mage heard the subtle catch of pain in his lover's voice and it was all he could do to not go to him and comfort him.  "Nothing else.  I swear, nothing else."  He waited, silently.

"Dorian, you understand the weight of responsibility I bear.  So many people, some say the whole future, rests on my clear head and good decisions.  I cannot be distracted with castle intrigue and ... affairs.  Why do you bring this to me?"

The Tevinter was finding Trevelyan's unemotional response disconcerting.  This would go so much better if he would just get angry, raise his voice, storm from the room.  Anything but reason and  _calm._

"I bring it to you because - because you matter to me, and your good opinion matters to me, and I gave you my word.  The truth is, as much as I want our shared devotion - and I do - I have no experience in these things, as I explained, and I...."  he trailed off.  "I just want to do what is right," he said.

The Herald was silent for a minute, then moved in front of the mage. They looked at each other.  To Dorian's great relief, the Inquisitor smiled, putting a hand on each of his shoulders, then he stifled a laugh and said, "You poor man.  However will you confine yourself to the passions of only one lover?"

"You're teasing me," Dorian said dryly.

"I am," the Herald said back, smiling warmly and crossing his wrists behind Dorian's neck.

Dorian put his arms around the warrior's waist and drew him in, resting his forehead on his shoulder.  "I'm sorry."

"I know, Dorian.  Fair to say it won't happen again?"  Dorian lifted his head and peered intently into the Herald's eyes.  "It will not happen again," he said, as much to convince himself as the man he said it to.  The Inquisitor kissed him gently, and Dorian finally breathed as he should once more.

The Herald reached up and ran his thumb gently across the man's lips.  "Fenris is in a lot of pain, Dorian.  He seeks comfort, not destruction - but I will not share mine," he said, pulling away and turning toward the desk. "I trust neither of you will need to be reminded?" he said over his shoulder.

The mage grabbed his wrist and spun him back into his arms.  Dorian smiled a warm and wanting smile when their eyes met again, tilting his head as he often does. "My darling Inquisitor, I believe your description of me as property has set my blood boiling," he whispered, pushing his hips against the other man as proof.   "I think, just to be sure, you should take me to bed and sweat every memory of him from my weak and trembling body."

The Herald laughed just slightly as their lips came together in a hungry kiss, and Dorian removed his quilted tunic before they'd even had time to fall on the bed.

 

* * * * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and for your comments and kudos <3


	8. The Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is that what they call it in Seheron?  
> And the lesson in the stairwell.

The next day, Fenris was in his quarters, collapsed on his back on the bed, his hands behind his head, staring at the shadowed ceiling with a heavy heart.  He had fought tears all the long way back from the library, then half through the night, and felt that he was done with that, for now.  Hawke's words rang in his ears, over and over.   _I thought that's what you wanted._  

With sheer strength of will he pushed the encounter, and the mindless replays of what he could have said or should have said, out of his head and considered what to do next.  He had heard from Varric that the Inquisition would be sending a party to the Western Approach and he needed to be with them.  Even if he couldn't swing his sword, there must be something he could do.  He swung his feet over to the floor and took a deep breath.  Yes, he would go to the Western Approach, even as the cook if he must.  His friends, new and old, were facing an evil most of them had never seen, and he was going to offer whatever aid he could.  He had to find his strength again, and this was a good place to start.  He felt the old fire for a moment, and longed to swing the Blade of Mercy in his hands, but it couldn't be helped.  He stood and smoothed his clothes, and set off to find the Inquisitor.

*******

Fenris was put off immediately upon entering the Herald's rooms.  The carpets here were deeper than anywhere in the keep, and his bare feet noticed the difference immediately.  Comfortable, yes, but a reminder that he was a bit out of his place here, and he shifted and leaned as he waited for the man to speak.

The Inquisitor was leaning over his desk when he finally spoke, and did not turn around.  "Fenris.  Is there something I can do for you?"  He said.  His tone was flat and difficult for the elf to read, but his refusal to meet his eyes said plenty enough.  The man was troubled about something.

"Yes, Herald, if you have a moment.  I wanted to speak with you about the party leaving for the Western Approach..." Fenris trailed off, waiting for the man to turn around.  He had really expected the kind and easy smile he had known in the courtyard. 

Moments ticked by in silence as the Herald moved papers around on his desk.  Fenris' unease finally growing into painful self-doubt and a desire to retreat.  "I've caught you at a bad time, I see," he said honestly.  "I can come back later.  Please forgive the intrusion."  The elf turned and headed for the door, half hoping this would prompt the man to address him.  The meeting was indeed uncomfortable, but patience was not something the elf held in great supply and he was fairly twitching in his need to have this settled.  He couldn't have known that the Herald's delay was a deliberate attempt to ignore the things he longed to say in favor of those he should.

"Fenris, wait.  I have time," he said and turned around.  Their eyes met and Fenris smiled, the barely perceived tilt of the corner of his mouth that he intended as a smile, anyway.  The elf took note that man was similarly dressed to the day in the courtyard.  His clothes were quilted and fine, and fit him perfectly.  His hair was bound neatly at the back of his head and was as relaxed as a man in his position should be when addressed in his own rooms.  He crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the edge of the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles.   Fenris shuffled inwardly a bit, not used to asking for things, and hoping he could manage an air of humility.  When he spoke, it was careful and quiet.  "It is good to see you again, Herald.  Thank you for making time for me."   The man said nothing in return, and it was awkward, as the elf had thought they'd formed a certain friendship that day in the sun.  Perhaps he was wrong.  He inhaled then and continued, "Yes, well, I understand that you are putting together a party for a journey to the Western Approach.  I would like to offer my aid."

The inquisitor smiled at this, but Fenris was sure it was not the smile he expected.  "Fenris, it is good of you to offer, but I'm not sure what aid you can be," he said with an uncommon hint of authority, nodding  in the direction of the elf's arm.

Fenris prepared himself for the unexpected task of convincing the Herald otherwise, and took a deep breath before explaining, "You are right of course, that my sword can be of no assistance.  However, I do have this, " he said, raising his fist and causing the lyrium to glow.  "I assure you it is rather deadly when necessary.  I am entirely self-sufficient, Herald.  I would not be anyone's way."

There was again an undeniable  _something_  in the Herald's voice when he spoke next.  "I'm quite sure it is, Fenris.  However, we expect to fight magic more than anything else in this battle and your particular talent seems more for close quarters, wouldn't you agree?"  The Inquisitor inhaled then, offering a weak smile, then turned back to his desk, casually dismissing Fenris with his back, and picking up a quill to start writing again.  Fenris began to feel his argument being lost, far against the odds he had anticipated when he first came into the room.  The Herald was not being reasonable, he thought, and there was too much at stake, so he pressed on as the other man continued writing - and dismissing.

The air in the room pressed on the elf, and the idea that he might be denied permission to go was beginning to constrict his chest.  Fenris moved uneasily on his feet, reaching deeper into pleading and bargaining than he thought he would ever need to, or worse, ever be desperate enough to.  He was irritated when he spoke, and must have forgotten to hide it.  "Herald, you'll forgive me, but you once asked a very difficult favor of me, and I did as well as I could.  I am asking a favor now.  I sense there is something you're not saying.  Perhaps you could disregard the diplomacy you are so clearly skilled with, and get to the point? "

Fenris heard the tip of the quill break against the hard surface of the desk, the sound stabbing an unexpected dagger of dread through him.  The Herald turned around.

"Is that what you did, Fenris?  A favor?  Is that what they call it in Seheron?"  The Inquisitor's normal patience and deliberateness slipped as he took several  paces across the room toward the elf. 

Fenris froze, unable to think fast enough to form the right words.  Was there even anything he could say?  The man knew!   He took a step back as the Inquisitor advanced.  Thinking, thinking, grasping at fragments of words and sentences that all began with "I didn't" and "I shouldn't" and "I'm sorry..." but none of them would come together.  He wanted to -  _desperately wanted to_  - say he was sorry, say he didn't mean it, tell the Herald it was Hawke he was kissing really and not his lover,  _anything_  that would help, but all he could think about - the only thing that really mattered - was that that one minute of frustrated need was going to keep him from being where he needed to be and there was nothing he could do about it.

Standing just a pace from each other, the two warriors locked eyes, neither of them speaking.  Fenris' initial shock and shame was slowly being replaced with anger as the seconds ticked by, and his eyes narrowed and darkened as he stared back at the man.   It was nothing but a kiss, and why had Dorian felt the childish need to confess?

The Inquisitor spoke first, turning away as he did.

"There is nothing you _can_ say, Fenris.  Don't try," he said, his voice lower now, clearly having seen the elf's thoughts reflected through his eyes.  He paced across the soft carpet then before turning back to the elf to speak, his voice both angry and tired.

"There was a time, Fenris, when I cared about what you had gone through.  I cared about your painful past, I cared that war had torn you from the one you loved, I cared that you had nearly died to get here.  That has changed.  Were it not for the bond between you and Garrett Hawke, that is clearly fractured in more ways than I care to understand, I would have had you removed from the keep hours ago. 

I am a kind man, Fenris, but you have crossed a line that changes that.  Even so, I have a job to do and I intend to do it.  So, if you can offer your sword, I would ask you to go and defend Thedas at our side.  When we leave for the Western Approach, it will be as comrades in arms and _the rest_ will stay behind.  However, if you have no sword to offer, I am not willing to entertain your presence on the march, or in this room, a minute more.

Is that sufficiently to the point?"

Fenris said nothing.  His hands were now curled in fists and no words decent enough to speak actually came to mind.  He turned on his heel and returned to the door.  As he opened it to step through, the Herald spoke again, and the elf did not turn around.

"One other thing, Fenris.  Stay away from Dorian.  I have yet to use the authority of my position for personal matters.  Don't make me."

Fenris stepped through the door and pulled it hard and loud, shut behind him.

*******

The elf was seething as he took the wooden stairs that led down to the main hall.  He was more than a sword, damnit!   He had not even had the chance to plead, to explain that he  _could not_  let his friends go alone.  That he would not be a coward, quietly hiding when there was a war, even if the mage thought he should.  He would have to find a way to wield the sword, to be at the side of those that mattered to him, as he always had.

The anger, disappointment, desperation were all spinning though his thoughts as he hit the bottom stair.  He looked up just in time to see Dorian - _Dorian_  - step through the door.

Fenris and the mage both stopped where they stood.  Dorian silently shut the door behind him when their eyes met.  It was clear upon finding the warrior leaving the Inquisitor's apartments, what had just happened.  He braced himself and waited.

"You told him.  He denies me leave to travel with the Inquisition to this fight, because you told him."  It was all Fenris could say for the moment.  Somewhere deep down he hoped the mage would offer an explanation that made sense, or that at least quieted the turmoil of emotion and rage in his mind.

Dorian, still feeling the familiar warmth of friendship, underestimated the elf's anger and spoke openly about his decision.  "Fenris, I had to.  I am trying - trying - to be a better man."

Fenris stepped closer to him, still holding his gaze.  Dorian felt the same obsessive give inside he'd been trying to vanquish since they'd met.   _His eyes._   Maker, let it pass, he thought, pushing and shoving the thing it was doing to him down, only to have it come back again.

Dorian broke free of the gaze, looking up the stairs. He made a move to pass Fenris in the tight space, but the elf would have nothing of it.

Fenris stepped in Dorian's way again, then closer, the mage moving back against a stack of crates behind him.  "Trying to be a better man?"  he asked, mocking, as though he had no idea what that meant.

His eyes locked with the Tevinter's, and the elf heard the words  _stay away from Dorian_  echo through his mind as a challenge.  Angry, insulted, disillusioned by what he thought was a friend, he leaned over, reckless and predatory, one hand resting against a wooden beam over the mage's head, the other possessively finding a place on the mage's hip.  His breath was hot and damp on Dorian's cheek, when he whispered in his ear.  "Say no then." 

Fenris let their cheeks touch, and he flexed the grip of his fingers against the man's hip.  He leaned his face into Dorian's neck, teeth touching at his pulse, dragging his mouth down the muscle to his shoulder, waiting...

Dorian's heart raced at the touch, at the words, at the very painful need to say no.  Eyes closed, he willed his hips to be still, and prayed that Fenris didn't hear the moan trying to whisper from his throat.  Then he felt Fenris' breath at his mouth, he tasted it, inhaled it, and his lips parted waiting for the kiss...

The hand at his waist was suddenly gone and he opened his eyes.  Fenris had straightened in front of him, arms folded across his chest.  A twisted arrogant smile played across his face, green eyes hard and mocking.  "You can't say no, and I pay for it," he spat in anger.

"You smug bastard, " Dorian seethed, and before Fenris knew how to respond, the mage had grabbed his wrists and spun him around, pushing him hard against the crates, wrists held beside his head with powerful and angry fingers.  Dorian pressed himself against the elf's back, assuming instantly the role of dominance, and breathed into the elf's neck from behind.  "Isn't  _this_  the way you prefer things, elf?  Face down?" 

Fenris struggled, but only briefly, and the mage moved one leg between his, pushing against him, pinning him where he was.   Dorian's face stayed nestled in the elf's hair, and Fenris could feel his breath, and the heat of his chest on his back, and the relentless, stimulating pressure of his thigh between his legs, pressed high and hard.  The lyrium, of course, could free him at any moment, but something about this was better than freedom and he stilled as Dorian smiled a knowing smile and whispered into his ear.

"I have lain awake at night, Fenris, remembering our kiss, wanting desperately for the taste of your mouth to stop haunting me."  He released one wrist and moved his hand around the elf's body, laying it against his chest, enjoying the rush of the elf's labored breathing.  His hand moved slowly across the muscled torso as he spoke.  "I've sat in a chair only feet from the Herald, pretending to read, so my mind could wander to visions of you kneeling before me, the taste of my cock still in your throat, your beautiful tongue licking my climax from your lips."  His free hand moved lower, lifting the edge of the elf's cotton tunic, and tracing across the warmth of his bare skin.  Fenris shivered, an unbidden sound of surrender escaping his lips.  Dorian smiled, nearly panting himself, his own erection hot and hard, pressed against the backside of the elf.  The seduction had quickly become an exquisite torture for them both, but still, the mage would finish the game.

He bit into Fenris' neck then, gently, his tongue licking at the sweat of his skin, his fingers moving to the promising string of the elf's breeches.  With one tug they were untied, and Dorian felt Fenris stop breathing.  

Dorian murmured and sighed into the elf's neck as his hand moved inside the cloth.  He felt Fenris' body stiffen, waiting as the mage's fingers moved slowly down the hard length of his shaft, then finally - finally - wrapped around it.  Fenris made no effort to disguise the groan.  He arched his hips at Dorian's hand, leaning his neck toward the hot, damp feel of the mage's mouth at his jaw, his lips open, desperate and needing.  

Fenris'  lust became shameless, and he writhed and leaned as Dorian stroked him, the mage's words ever more deliberate and erotic. 

"You have made it clear, Fenris, that if I wanted to fuck the memory of that mage from you..." he bit harder, fingers tighter and faster, "...if I wanted to feel the pull of your warm, slick, perfect Elvhen body on my cock..." Fenris was trembling now, body arching with the mage's strokes, small sounds of elicit pleasure shaking from his throat as Dorian's grip brought him to the edge ... "that all I need do is take you..."

"Dorian... please...." the elf let out a hoarse whisper, his body, his mind, begging for release.

The Tevinter stopped all he was doing, hearing Fenris' plea, and he leaned into the nape of the elf's neck.  "You see?  It is you who has need, Fenris. Not I," he growled into his ear. Then, finding a strength of will he didn't know he possessed, he ended the game.  With an almost violent exhalation of breath, he pulled away, shaken, painfully hard and wanting, but separate.

Fenris spun around, falling back on a crate.  His face was flushed, tiny sparkles of sweat clung to his brow.  He pulled the tunic down over his undone pants, hiding the smear of precome on his belly, and the painful, swollen erection that Dorian had left.  He swallowed hard and looked up at the mage, once haunting eyes now violent with rage.

Dorian was straightening his clothes, running fingers through his hair, trying almost in vain to compose himself.  His desire was apparent, even to Fenris, who was nearly blind with his own.

" _Now_  there is no mistaking how much I want you, Fenris," Dorian said, still trying to catch his breath.  "I've said it."  He finished preening and smoothing, and, having decided that going upstairs would be the wrong thing to do just now, he stepped past Fenris toward the main hall door.   He turned back at the elf, trading his own arrogance for something less biting, then said, "But you have underestimated me once again, elf.   The answer is still  _no_."  He left then, and closed the door behind him.

Members of the Inquisition who enjoyed the social aspect of the keep's main hall, heard the shattering of wooden crates being thrown and tossed, and an animal-like growl that somehow came with it. Heads turned toward the door. Most of them would not recognize Fenris as he abruptly burst through, but they didn't soon forget the shock of white hair, the curious bare feet, or the furious blaze of green eyes that silenced any of them wishing to speak.  

 

* * * * * * *


	9. Mage's Robes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of weakness, a moment of strength

* * * * * * *

Fenris ate his evening meal in solitude.  There were dozens of others in the dining hall, but he had lost his appetite for conversation, and perhaps even his ability to be social and civil.  After the mage had so brilliantly put him in his place, he just wanted to be alone.

The events in the stairwell had spun his head.  Dorian kept talking about need, and he didn't understand, but worse, the mage's pin of him against the wall should have made him violent, and instead it... did something else.   _"Isn't this the way you like it, Fenris?"_   He was still avoiding the answer to that question.  The whole thing had been an embarrassing loss of self control, and he had tried to put it out of his head entirely.

He had sought out Fiona at the mage's tower, begging for a fix to his wounded arm.  She had skimmed through some books, whispered a few words to others, and finally explained to Fenris that all that could be done, had been done.  "Some wounds take magic, some wounds take time," she had told him.

Every minute since the scene in the library, he had quietly hoped that Hawke would appear, and he never did, and now he did his best to ignore it, thinking it was just the ridiculous influence of the man he'd been trying so recklessly and selfishly to burn out of him.  Hawke couldn't fix everything, and now wasn't the time anyway.  The Inquisition was to leave for western edge of Orlais in two days.  He had done enough damage to their cause, he thought, upsetting the Inquisitor, and Hawke, and Dorian, when the very fate of Thedas lie before them.

He took another bite of his bread, chewing slowly.  Thinking.  They would be gone two weeks, at least.  He would be well and able to fight before their return.  Where would he go?  The hard realization that the manor in Amaranthine was no longer his home brought the lump to his throat again.  He was drawn back to the morning that Hawke had disappeared, lying safely in the comfort of their bed, the smell of him still lingering in the blankets.

Maker, for that moment back, or the day before, or the week. 

The plate empty, Fenris rose and left the hall.  It was late.  Another day of bad news and bad choices had left him tired and in desperate need of sleep.  The cold feel of the stone floor felt good on his feet as he padded down the corridor to his room.  It was neither good nor bad when he turned the corner and saw Hawke, his fist raised to knock on Fenris' door, but his chest constricted like a vice anyway, and he had to fight the urge to run the rest of the length of the dim corridor and into his arms.

_Say something that helps... please..._

There were several paces between them when Hawke looked up and saw him, and Fenris stopped where he was, afraid to get closer.

"Fenris," Hawke said softly, turning to face him.  "I was just looking for you.  I wanted to - I was wondering - I just wanted to see if you were alright." 

Hawke was wearing long, pale mage's robes. Fenris had always thought he was regal and beautiful dressed this way.  He pushed back the unwanted longing for an embrace and the soft feel of the cloth against his cheek.

"Thank you for worrying, but I'm fine," he lied.  "Another week, and I'll be able to train again.  I hardly feel the pain of it anymore.  How are you?"  the elf asked, attempting nonchalance, trying -  _needing_  - to keep things simple. 

Hawke ignored the effort.  "I miss you, Fenris.  Do you want to talk?" Hawke asked, the barest tremor of hope in his voice.

Fenris dropped his eyes and slowly, wordlessly, shook his head no.  He believed he was doing what needed to be done, and he _knew_  that if they talked he would give in.

Hawke spoke again, taking two steps toward him.  "Fenris,  _da'mi,_ nothing has changed for me.  When you're ready, I'm here," he said gently.  The pain of their separation was clear in his voice, and Fenris knew it was real.  He wanted to go to him, wanted to tell him how awful he'd been and let him say he loved him anyway, but he couldn't. 

Hawke paused for a moment, waiting for the elf to speak, but at last defeated, he sighed, dragging a palm across the top of his head, and made way to pass him in the corridor in favor of any other place in the keep. Fenris finally lifted his face, and with strained, deliberate effort, looked over the mage's shoulder, avoiding his eyes, and waited for him to pass. 

The elf's thoughts raced in those few seconds, the battle between his heart, his need for comfort, and his decision to resist, pounding in every part of him.  As Hawke walked by, their shoulders brushed each other, and just for an instant, the elf's heart won, and he  _reached_  for him. 

It was the faintest of touches.  Thin Elvhen fingers, just barely clasping the calloused tips of Hawke's own.  Hawke stopped, closing his eyes, and the two of them stood side by side, connected by just millimeters of skin.

Fenris, voice heavy with self-wrought pain, looked down again and whispered, "I am wrecked without you."

Hawke breathed deeply and said nothing, then he squeezed the elf's fingers gently, and quietly walked away.

* * * * * * *

Dorian paced the soft carpet of the Inquisitor's quarters, waiting for him.  He was dressed in bed clothes and bare feet, and he stopped here and there to clench his toes nervously in the pile of the rug.  It was late, and surely he would return soon.  The mage had already been here, pacing and worrying, an hour.

He had something to say.  Something important.  Something that had to be said before they left for the wastes of Orlais.

Only minutes after he had left Fenris, hard, shaken and rejected in the stairwell, something shifted in Dorian's view of things.  First, of course, came the guilt.  Maker, he had  _promised_.  He could not confess again, and he knew it.  This secret would have to die with him.  And then, something else.  Something very much like triumph began to push the guilt down, deep into the buried archive of lessons learned and mistakes that made him stronger.   The guilt was indeed replaced with joy and revelation.  He had said no.  But it wasn't rejecting the soul stealing drug that was the green-eyed elf that mattered, it was the reason why. 

At last the door came open and the Herald stepped into the room.  Dorian's face warmed and a quiet smile met the other man, clearly happy to see him, too.

They met in the middle of the room, falling instantly into an embrace.  "There you are," the warrior said, planting a kiss on the hairs of the mage's neatly groomed moustache.  "You are a welcome sight at the end of a very long day," he leaned back, smiling fondly.  The Inquisition, as it was, was to leave for a long journey to the Western Approach the day after next.  The Herald had spent the day chasing supplies, checking details, meeting at the war table for last minute conferences and decisions.

Dorian pulled him back in again, arms tightening around him.  He moved one hand to cup the back of his lover's skull, and leaned his face into his hair, breathing in the scent of him.

"Dorian, what is it?" the Herald asked gently, nuzzling his face into the man's warm neck.

The Tevinter sighed, not letting go.  "It's nothing,  _amatus_.  Last minute jitters, I suppose," he said quietly, deciding whatever it was that what had been so urgent seconds before, really wasn't anymore.  He wanted this moment, this tenderness, as long as he could have it.

The Inquisitor eventually reluctantly pulled away and crossed the room to find something more comfortable to wear.  Dorian leaned against the bed post then, watching and thinking.  _I want more_ , the captivating Free Marcher had said.  An easy enough thing to want in the afterglow of what had been a very memorable and intimate afternoon.  Even then, the altus knew it was never that simple, and for them since then, fraught with his own misdeed and stumbling, adolescent efforts at fidelity.   A slowly spreading warmth from the core of him reassured him there would be no more of that.  He smiled a crooked smile at the thought of his own willing surrender.

The room was filled with firelight, and the soft glow reflected from the Herald's skin as he changed.  Dorian was moved by how beautiful he seemed just then, the quilted dress tunic falling to the floor, revealing the taunt skin of his chest and abdomen, muscles twisting and flexing, his hair now unbound, and falling around his face.  The spread of the warmth had begun to fill the mage's chest.  He smiled at himself when he felt it, welcoming the rush, strangely unafraid of what it meant.

He walked over to the Herald, but didn't speak, and the other man straightened in front of him, his clean tunic still in his hands, string of his cotton pants, untied.  He smiled at Dorian, tilting his head with curiosity.  "Dorian, are you alright?"

Dorian said nothing, his eyes darkening, the barest trace of a smile on his lips.  He moved closer to the warrior, silently taking the shirt from his hand and dropping it in a forgotten crumple on the floor.  Their eyes met, and he put one hand at the small of the Herald's back, the other gently gripping the hinge of his jaw and pulled him close.  Trevelyan wrapped his arms around the mage, and their eyes held each other's for a moment more before they kissed.

A quiet sound of deliverance came from the Dorian's throat as he brought their mouths together, and he kissed the Herald as though they had never kissed each other before.  Softly, deeply, lips parting and sliding, gently caressing the giving mouth of the man in his arms.  The Inquisitor moaned softly, hands against the mage's back, pulling him even closer.  Dorian deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against the warrior's lips, his teeth, back into his mouth to taste his lover's breath, his tongue twisting gently to find his own.  He pulled back for an instant, deep longing and adoration in his eyes as they met the Herald's.  Aching to express the tenderness he felt, his fingers moved to brush the hair back from the man's face, touching his brow, his temple.  He closed his eyes and pulled their mouths together again, open and wanting...his lips... his breath... his sighs.

When Dorian finally lifted his face to gaze into the Herald's eyes, the man was breathless, trembling, and he raised his fingers to his mouth, but said nothing to break the spell of the altus' perfect kiss. 

Dorian stepped back, just inches, and, with a grace and style he had perfected beyond reason, he removed his own clothes as the other man looked on, an admiration for the mage's near perfect form reflected in his eyes.  The Tevinter smiled at this, always proud, and then reached for him, bringing him just close enough to gently push his pants over his hips and his rising erection, and onto the floor.

The Inquisitor stepped out of the twist of cloth at his feet, and their eyes met again for an instant before he suddenly put both hands to Dorian's neck and hungrily pulled their mouths together with a groan, the spell broken now with unrelenting desire.  Dorian smiled against his mouth, raising an eyebrow in jest.  " _Amatus_ , I am attempting to seduce you.  These things really should not be rushed," he laughed gently, pulling him closer.

"Enough already, Dorian.  I am seduced.  Take me to bed," the warrior murmured thickly, kissing him between words.  He sank his fingers into the muscle of Dorian's sculpted glutes and pulled their hips together with a tug.  The mage let out a startled moan of surrender when he felt the swollen heat of his lover's hardness pressing against his own, and he crushed his mouth again in a kiss.  "As you command, my Herald," Dorian answered with a smirk, and he lifted the man off his feet and carried him to the bed.

*******

The spreading heat in Dorian's chest continued to warm him, looking down at his naked lover reclining against the soft blankets of the bed, eyes wanting, hands flexing with the need to touch him.  He was reminded again that he wanted this, and from only  _him_ , for as long as the Maker would let him.

Dorian fell upon him with low growl of need, and made love to him with the slow, deliberate passion of a man who wanted to remember everything, claim everything,  _give everything_.  There was so much he wanted him to know, and with things like this, the normally eloquent Dorian Pavus was simply at a loss for words.  And so, he told him with his hands and their caress, the smooth deliberate slide of his skin against his skin, the strong bend of his muscles, arching and stretching, and at last, the gentle, sliding penetration of his fingers inside, taunting him with the promise of release.   

When Dorian heard the whispered, needful, " _...please..._ " , he pulled him into his arms in front of him, back against chest, enveloping his body with his own, covering his lover's shoulders and neck with bites and kisses. The herald sighed the Tevinter's name, clenching the blankets in his fist as Dorian pushed against and slid into him, slowly setting nerves alight, until he was finally, perfectly, filling him inside.

The Herald groaned with pleasure and pain, arching back against him for more, and Dorian pulled him in tight, one arm crossed fiercely over the muscled contours of his chest,  the other lower, pressed hard against abdomin, pushing his body back into him, wanting to be even closer, when already they were hip to hip.  Trevelyan reached behind him, gripping the mage's thigh, desperately trying to pull him in deeper, the other hand clinging with urgent need to the forearm across his chest. *

"Maker, you are beautiful," Dorian breathed into the Herald's neck, the pleasure building between them as much from the glorious friction as from the hard, hot press of their bodies so completely entwined.  They arched and moved as one, bodies tensing and relaxing, the mage's mouth frantic against the warrior's back, their hands becoming desperate, touching, reaching, pulling at each other, sliding across sweat-slicked skin, until waves of brilliant, overwhelming sensation crescendo'd into one final, tight, blinding push against each other, and they came, Dorian only seconds after the breathtaking man in his arms.

* * * * * * *

The wounded and heartbroken elf stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him, resting there for a moment, eyes closed and white hair leaned back against the rough planks.  He exhaled slowly, fighting back tears, and the oppressive, compelling desire to run back into the darkened hall. 

No matter how much effort he made, it was as though he drifted alone in an ocean, the strength of his former self the air he needed to breathe.  He would gulp at it, desperate and insufficient, with unfair confrontation and pained, elicit kisses that he didn't really feel, just to be pulled under the waves once more by the desperate, consuming pull of something that had once been the most precious thing in his life.

Fenris moved away from the door, and leaned over the hearth to stoke the fire.  The flames rose and crackled, sending sparks at his feet and wisps of smoke through the air.  The light danced around the room, eventually bouncing across the polished steel of the Blade of Mercy, resting in the corner.  He looked at it for a long moment, weary with a week's worth of longing for its weight in his hands.

He drew his gaze back to fire, searching the depths of light and dark for something that felt like peace.  It was then that he saw the folded parchment on the floor, just inches away from where he crouched at the hearth, and he picked it up as he stood and took the few steps to sit on the bed.

The message was folded only once, the parchment old and worn.  Fenris assumed it had been pushed under the door, and he was glad of the neat writing, as reading was not his greatest skill.

" _Fenris,_

_I heard you in the tower.  I know of your wound and your pain._  
 _My daughter and I were among the rescued at Runaway's Cavern,_  
 _and I would settle my debt._  
 _There is a blood spell that can help you, if you wish to be helped._  
 _I will be at this location at midnight."_

The note was not signed, and a rough sketch of a map was included at the bottom.

Blood magic.  Some escaped mage wanted to heal him with blood magic.  He smirked at the irony.  Yes,  and then I'll use my healed arm to slay the abomination you become before my eyes, in grateful thanks for your aid, he thought, considering briefly whether the Inquisition knew that the foul maleficarum had penetrated their ranks.

He threw the message toward the fire, and it caught a draft as thrown parchment does, and floated briefly, before sliding on the current and landing across the room.  Fenris let out a sigh of resignation. The whole day had gone that way.

Fenris lay back on the bed, bare feet still on the floor.   Fingers clasped behind his head, he closed his eyes and finally gave in to the memory of Hawke in the hall that had been dodging around at the edges of his mind, relentlessly seeking a way in.  Maker, he missed him.  Soon they would leave without him, and he would heal and move on, alone.  Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, the only thing he had ever loved in his life, would be gone to face an evil that had already proven its unwillingness to end.   He tried to shake the worry from his mind.  The mage had made his feelings clear, and the elf was unwilling to live with them.

The nagging, ugly truth pressed on.  He remembered their own fight with Corypheus.  They had nearly fallen then, and the Elder One would only be stronger now.  Unbidden images ghosted through his mind... Hawke... Varric...Dorian...the kind and reluctant Inquisitor, all dead in a swirl of gas and magic, bodies beaten and destroyed, smoking corpses at the feet of the Blight, murdered in their courageous effort to save each other, to save Thedas. 

And Fenris would be here, in this frozen, desolate, _safe,_ place, the Blade of Mercy uselessly propped against a wall.

He fought back the tears of frustration that threatened at the corners of his eyes, but soon lost.  At first silent and mournful, under the agonizing press of death and certain sacrifice they became steady and relentless, and his breath caught in his throat, stifling sobs of anguish that would only prove he couldn't be strong.   _No..._

_No..._

"No!  You will not take them!" 

Fenris shouted at the ceiling, hands curled into angry fists at his sides.  He sat bolt upright on the bed then, breathing deeply, knocking the salty wetness from his face.

Without another thought, he crossed the room, and took his armor down from the wall.  His breath came in frustrated gasps of willful and deliberate urgency as he donned the armor, closing each buckle and strap with trembling hands.  When he was done, he moved across the room to the sword, the gleam from the fire shining off the blade, now a beckoning call that he neither wanted, nor felt able, to ignore.  He hesitated, reaching with both hands for the hilt.  Gauntlets curled and shining in the light, he froze and withdrew.  Fear.  Maker, not this, too.  He reached again, forcing himself to move through it, to ignore it, to feel the power of his weapon in his hands again.  The pain near his shoulder was ablaze with fire as he lifted the weight of the sword, and the lyrium sang in protest.  With near reverence, Fenris lifted the blade up high in front of his face, closing his eyes, pushing through the pain, and feeling - _becoming_  - the power of his warrior's might again.  With a shout of anger and oath, he brought the point of the sword violently down into the floor, sending shards of brittle stone to every corner of the room.

The warrior elf stood there a moment, eyes closed, reeling with resolve, the hilt of the sword in his good hand, tip resting against the stones.  He inhaled slowly, letting the air fill his lungs and the moment fill his soul.  Green eyes then steeled with determination, he moved the sword to its place at his back, retrieved the note from the floor, and quickly strode from the room.

* * * * * * *

In another part of the keep, the spirit called Cole was startled alert.  Something shifted in the Fade and he reached, searching.  The elf, always in pain.  Now there was more, and something else.  There was blood, and the demons were moving and anxious.

 _He hurts him and he heals him_. 

Cole ran to find Hawke.  Fenris had to be stopped before it was too late.

* * * * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Inspiration for Dorian/Trevelyan scene [here.](http://i.imgur.com/rFoYZSS.jpg)  
> (graphic content)
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


	10. Night Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An act of love.  
> An act of desperation.

 

* * * * * * *

The altus mage lay, sated and warm, a ridiculous smile on his face, propped up on pillows, one arm behind his head.  His lover was perfectly nestled against him, his face resting on his shoulder, one leg twined between his, and he watched from hooded eyes as Trevelyan ran his hand across his chest, across his abdomen, fingers tracing lines that made him shiver.  The arm that lay beneath the other man was wrapped around him, hand cupping his shoulder, then moving to caress whatever part of skin Dorian could reach.  He breathed deeply, closing his eyes.  Moments like this, he knew, were a part of the growing devotion they shared.  This comfort, this feeling of well being, all something one rarely if ever achieved in the trysts and romps of the Imperium.  This, he was certain, was _more_.

The Herald didn't look up when Dorian spoke, nor stall his tender caresses.  "I've been wanting to say something to you all day, _amatus_ , something syrupy and ridiculous that may actually draw a laugh from you at my expense, but I'm going to say it anyway," he said, attempting without success to loosen the unfamiliar band of fear that the coming words had tightened around him.  The Inquisitor only smiled, murmuring something sweet into Dorian's warm skin, followed by several soft, moist kisses to salty expanse of the man's shoulder and chest.

Dorian playfully growled and reached for the Herald's chin, tilting his face upward to look into his eyes.  "If you continue with that, I will undoubtedly be compelled to ravish you again, and the words will never find their way to your ears," he smiled warmly, his eyes sincere, and the Inquisitor shifted positions to lean on one hand and look at him.  "Of course, Dorian.  My full attention," he said with half a smile, his gaze drifting to the corner of Dorian's mouth, not unnoticed by the mage, who rolled his eyes and continued anyway.  
  
"I - this... do you recall asking me about after, and what about us,  _after_?

I do.  And I remember you said we would talk about it, _after_.

"Indeed I did.  And I've changed my mind."

"Is that right?"  The Inquisitor barely concealed a knowing smile.

Dorian slid down into the blankets, pulling the Herald with him, until they lay facing each other, bodies touching from chest to tangled ankles.  They each rested their heads on one bent arm, the warrior's free hand draped across the Tevinter's waist. 

Dorian couldn't resist touching his face, tracing his thumb along the edge of Trevelyan's jaw.  He inhaled deeply then, "I no longer wish to wait until after.  Certain recent events, being what they are, and other coming events being as unknown as they are, I need to tell you now."

His lover gazed back into his eyes  with a warming look that might be adoration, and Dorian was inspired to press on.  " _Amatus_ , whatever hesitations I had, whatever fears I might have expressed about you and I, they are gone.  I - what I mean is..." 

The thing that had been warming and filling the mage's chest all day had finally grown to the point of bursting, and a torrent of tenderness and emotion threatened to spill from him all on its own.  He swallowed, pushing the gushing words back into his throat, because gushing was so staggeringly not what he wanted to do, and said simply, "Being devoted is no harder than breathing with you, and I want this, us, as long as the Maker allows it to be," and he closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against his lover's, feeling awkward and out of his depth, hoping that anything he had said would make sense.

The Herald pushed him back into the covers, and moved over him, looking down into his eyes.  Then he kissed him, a long deliberate kiss that spoke of their bond, and his own commitment, and the complete assurance that he'd understood every word.

The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, warrior and leader, pulled back from the kiss, a hand caressing each side of the mage's face.  "We are coming back from this, Dorian," he said with a reassuring smile, moving to lay his face back against the warm, thudding heartbeat in Dorian's chest, "... and I love you, too." 

The altus had to stop the protest from leaving his lips, because certainly that was not what he had meant to say... until he realized that yes, it was.  With a sigh of acknowledgement and defeat, and maybe even joy, he knew that the spreading warmth in his chest all day was love, the reason he said  _no_  was love, and this perfect specimen of a man who had overlooked so much, was love.   And now he no longer feared the outcome of the approaching fight against evil, because there was nothing in all of Thedas, including a ravenous master of blight, that was going to stop them from having this.

They fell asleep that way, one dreaming of a great battle and final victory against the Blight, the other of a safe and peaceful Thedas, where growing old beside someone you would die for, was the ultimate victory over everything.

* * * * * * *

Fenris approached the cave cautiously.  The elf despised magic, and didn't trust most who used it.  It would do no good to be reckless.  He had not been happy when the sorry man inside had been saved and released on Hawke's command, but for now it seemed good that he was.  The warrior elf remembered that day, and the disagreement he and Hawke would have time and again about the dangers of unsupervised magi.  Hawke always won - he won every argument - but the elf's point had lost its strength anyway, once he'd started spending all of his days and nights with an apostate.

Through the trees he could see the lantern's light, spilling its yellow glow from the mouth of the cave.  He crept closer.  When he was sure the man was alone, he straightened from his sneaking crouch and stepped into the pool of light.

"I'm here, mage.  What is it you wanted to show me?" he said coldly, and the man looked up from the book he held in his hands.  He had light brown hair, cut short, and was wearing heavy cloth robes, typical of a mage, belted at the waist.  He was somewhere near middle-aged, and had a kind face.  Of course, a kind face meant nothing to Fenris.  He was maleficarum and once again, the wounded elf had to remind himself why he was here.

 _My arm and my sword.  Hawke, Varric... they cannot go alone_.

 The cave was quite small, and the entire depth of it was lit by the lantern resting awkwardly on rocky ledge.  In truth, they were not that far from the keep, down the mountain less distance than Fenris had fallen that day that now seemed a lifetime ago.  The path had twisted and turned, however, and Fenris felt sure they had privacy enough.

"Hello, Fenris," was all the man said.  There was fear in his eyes, and the warrior was annoyed.  He didn't have the time or desire to coddle him.  If he felt he owed the elf a debt and would do this, then let's be done with it.

"I'm not going to hurt you, mage.  You heard me in the tower.  You know my arm is weak.  Can you help me or not?"  Fenris took the steps necessary to close the distance between them, and as was typical for the famously brooding elf, scowled at the man, waiting for a reply.

The human spoke quietly, more with trepidation now than fear.  "Yes, I can help you, Fenris.  You do understand this is blood magic, is that right?"

Fenris raised the corner of his mouth in a taunting smirk. "Oh, yes, I understand.  Who will bleed?  You or I?  Or, do you have a sacrifice of some kind hidden in the cave?" 

The elf's naked hostility was pushing the man in robes to his limit.  "Fenris, there is no need for you to make this unpleasant.  I am trying to help you.  There is no sacrifice.  This spell requires only my own blood, and you have nothing to fear."  
  
Fenris wasn't impressed.  "Nothing to fear?  Nothing but all manner of foulness and abomination that you'll call forth from the Fade.  Why should I trust you?"

The caster's face lost its haze of kindness then, and he seethed, "You should trust me because I have never called forth anything from the Fade.  I was forced to learn blood magic to survive being hunted, and for nothing else.  If you don't want this, you are free to leave.  Run back to the keep and tell anyone who will listen that there is a foul blood mage on the loose, and see to it that I am punished for trying to aid you."

The man stood with his fists on his hips, anger flaring in his eyes, and the elf did the same, biting back the warning he wanted to hurl.  He understood being hunted, alone, terrified, willing to do anything to survive.   _Not all crows are black._   Fenris was tired, and the push and pull of his reluctance and desperation had drained him.  Add to that the cold of the stone floor creeping into his bare feet, and torturous sense of defeat he felt at even considering blood magic, and he was at his end.

With a long exhalation of breath, the elf relented, forced to admit to himself that this was truly his last chance, and the man was indeed trusting him too.

"You've made your point.  And I'm not sure what kind of monster you think I am, mage, but I would not see you imprisoned or murdered for helping me.  Please, let's be done with it.  What do you need from me?" he asked the robed man, quietly, decently.

The mage drew a breath, composing himself.  "Nothing from you, Fenris.  Stand here, stay calm and be still.  It's a short ritual, and will be done before you know it.  I don't expect you to feel anything more than the end of any pain you're in, but you'll let me know if you do, yes?"

Fenris nodded, apprehensive, but determined.

The two men stood less than a pace apart from each other,  and the caster took a silver dagger from beneath his robe and raised it to his palm. 

In that moment, time seemed to stop for the elf.   He was suddenly keenly aware of the frosted breeze that entered the cave, and the sound of dried leaves swirling about in the current behind him.  He looked across at the mage, eyes compelled to stare at the pulse beating in the man's neck, then drawn to the way his eyes had dimmed as he began to pull from the Fade.  Still time barely moved.  Fenris moved his gaze to the man's palm, and the gleaming edge of the knife just barely away from his skin.  It wasn't too late.  He could still stop him, stop this -

Fenris wasn't sure if the mage flinched before he was thrown the six feet across the cavern and into the hard rock of the wall behind him, but he was sure he was unconscious before he hit the floor. 

Before he had time to think, Fenris had the Blade of Mercy in his hands, his shoulder screaming in pain, and he spun to face the attack from the mouth of the cave.  Then he froze, nearly unable to breathe when he saw him, dark hair and long robes, blowing loose in the chilly night wind.  He was raising his hands to cast.

 * * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and for comments and kudos.
> 
> More soon!


	11. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closer... but not quite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued praise for my friend and beta reader, Buttons, who really is the best <3

* * * * * * *

The spell was broken the moment the elf recognized the glowing ball of fire growing in Hawke's hands.

"No!" he yelled, and dodged in front of the unconscious man on the floor. "Hawke, he's barely breathing!  Stop!"

Fenris was startled by the wild look in the caster's eyes, and his breath came in urgent gulps as he waited to see what the mage would do.  Just then, Commander Cullen and Varric came rushing into view, one to each side of the Champion.  The fireball danced in Hawke's fingers, anger lingering in his eyes. It was then that Fenris understood and tried again.

"Hawke, please.  He wasn't hurting me.  He was trying to help me," he said, his voice low and still breathless.  Another moment passed and the glowing orange fire faded as Hawke let his hands fall to his sides.  He reached for the elf, taking a step, a soft look of worry spreading across his face.

The look sent Fenris' mind reeling.  Hawke had been ready to kill the man on the ground, but not for blood magic, for _him._ He couldn't count the number of battles they had shared before, and every time the mage had been called on to defend him, he'd been fierce and effective, but never _concerned_.  His heart pounded in ears, first at his presence, fierce and real as it radiated through the cave, and then at the look and the undeniable reminder that he _loved_ him.

_I was trying to protect you._

The unconscious mage stirred behind him, and the cold reality of what he had just lost crushed the momentary haze of understanding with the force of an iron hammer.

Fenris stepped back.  "Don't.  Don't touch me.  Do you know what you've done?  DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE?!"  Now that the danger was passed, the elf felt nothing but rage.

Varric wisely picked that moment to step in.  "Fenris, what's going on?  What are you doing here?"

"None of your business, dwarf.  Stay out of it." He glared at Varric, his narrowed eyes casting unsaid threats that fell first on the dwarf and then moved to the Commander.  "You as well, Cullen.  All of you.  Go back to the keep and leave us alone.  This has nothing to do with you," his voice barely above a whisper, hardly more discernable than a growl.

"None of our business?  Fenris, he's a blood mage!"  Cullen, who took orders from no one took a step toward the man on the ground.

Fenris had had enough. He lifted the sword again, wincing at the pain, and swung it in the commander's path.  "You stay away from him," he seethed.

"Or what, Fenris?  You can barely lift your blade.  You would certainly be no match for mine.  He's going back to the keep and we'll decide what to do with him then." The foolish commander moved forward again.

The Blade of Mercy fell to the ground with a startling bounce and clang against the frozen stone.  Everyone but Fenris flinched at the sound, glancing first at the weapon on the ground, and then back to the elf, who was now glowing a brilliant blue.  His hands curled in fists, Fenris closed the distance between Cullen and himself, the lyrium growing even brighter. He smiled as Cullen stepped back, twice, something akin to fear passing across his features.

"That's right, Cullen, I have no blade.  Do you still think I'm so harmless?" he spat at the man, leaning in, their faces only inches apart.

"Fenris, that's enough."  Hawke had finally found his way through his tangled emotions. His need to protect warring with his anger as he tried to get things under control.  "Back off, Fenris.  Everybody take a breath.  Tell me what's going on, elf.  Now."

The man on the ground had begun to stir.  Fenris heard him moaning and went to him, prodding him twice with his foot in an effort to speed things up.  Never taking his eyes off the men at the mouth of the cave, he leaned over offering his hand and whispering, "That's it. Come on then.  On your feet, mage."  When the man was finally righted, he pivoted back around.  It didn't bother him at all that Hawke was still waiting for an answer. 

"Fenris..."

"Let him go.  I'll explain when he's gone."

Hawke glanced at Cullen without actually turning his head, and paused only a beat before he agreed. "Fine, get out of here, mage.  And go do something that keeps you out of my sight."

Cullen was angry, but it wasn't like him to be obvious about it.  "Hawke, he's going back to the keep for judgment.  We can't have maleficarum running around the Inquisition.  This is the Herald's call, not yours."

Fenris didn't wait for the mage to respond.  The lyrium swirls suddenly burned bright and he advanced on the warrior again, his voice low and deliberate.  "Commander, maybe I wasn't clear.  This man was trying to help me, and for that, I will guard his life.  How soundly do you sleep, Commander?" Fenris hissed.

"Damnit, Fenris!" from Hawke, who stepped directly between them, and firmly but gently pushed Fenris away.

Varric, who had done mostly nothing but watch and wait, took this as his cue.  "Commander, maybe Hawke's got this handled.  No harm, no foul?   It's blasted cold out here, and you know me, can't find my way in the dark.  How about getting me back to the keep?"   Cullen locked eyes with Hawke for a moment, then recognized the futility of trying to settle this issue now.  He glared once back at Fenris, then growled and turned in the direction of the dwarf.  "Alright, Varric. You're afraid of the dark and I'm fool enough to believe you.  Let's get out of here," and the two of them strode off down the path.

The blood mage spoke from behind the elf before he left, his voice offering kindness and regret.  "Thank you, Fenris.  I'm sorry I couldn't help you.  I truly am," he said, laying a hand on the warrior's shoulder as he said it.  He bent to gather is dagger from the leaves and dirt of the cave's floor, then disappeared into the night.  Fenris closed his eyes, his very last hope now gone.

 *******

They were alone now, and Fenris opened his eyes to find that Hawke had moved to stand next to him. 

"What was this all about, Fenris?" the mage asked softly, carefully.

"It was nothing.  He was going to heal my arm."

"Blood magic can't heal, Fenris.  You know this."

"Then maybe it would do something else.  Fuck, Hawke, I don't know.  We didn't get a chance to find out, did we?" he snapped back, and then stopped, exhaling slowly, shoulders slumping in defeat.

The fight had gone out of the elf now, left in the palm of a mage whose name he hadn't even bothered to learn.  There would be no speedy recovery, no march across Orlais.  Not too long from now, he would watch as all of the people who meant anything in his life left to face Corypheus, The Elder One, and he would stay behind, alone.  The truth of it was almost too much to bear.

His feet and legs were now painfully cold, and his shoulder ached from the weight of the sword.  When he spoke again, the anger and threat were gone, replaced with an unexpected, quiet plea for comfort.  "I'm cold, Hawke, and tired.  Can we head back?  I'll tell you all about it on the way," he forced a smile and looked up at him, but quickly looked away. 

From nowhere the elf was suddenly warm and the pain was gone. He finally met Hawke's gaze. "You are not supposed to use magic on me, you know.  We agreed," he said quietly, intensely grateful that he had.  Hawke smiled back down at him.  "Oh yes, as you've reminded me many times, Fenris.  I suppose I'm not always that good at listening, am I?"  The elf couldn't help but laugh.  "No, mage, you're not," he said, teasing, and, at least for now, undeniably happy at the return of playfulness between them. 

"Alright then, let's go," Hawke said, visibly shaking off the urge to put his arms around the elf and take the sadness from his eyes, and he headed toward the darkness of the woods.  Fenris retrieved his sword and got in step beside him, letting the familiar comfort of his presence push back the disappointment and sorrow. 

_Don't..._

"Hawke?"  Fenris broke the silence as they quietly navigated the path.

"No, I won't carry you, elf," Hawke mumbled back, and the elf could hear the smile in his voice.

_Don't..._

Fenris smiled, bumping him hard with his shoulder.  And yes, he heard the warnings going off in his head, and for whatever reason, he didn't care.  Hawke was here, and he'd been stunning and strong, the wind blowing through his hair, and Fenris had seen the worry and protection in his eyes.  The doubt was still there for the elf, and yes, some of the anger remained, but right now he was captivated, and in love, and wanted to be near the alluring mage so much more than he wanted to be right.    _Just for a little while..._

He took a breath, throwing caution and dignity to the wind, and pressed on.  "When we get back, I plan to have a glass of brandy and warm myself in front of a fire."

Hawke laughed, "Of course you are.  You've become a bit predictable, elf, " he said with a quiet laugh, nearly stumbling over a root that had grown into the path.

"And... I was wondering if you'd like to join me."  Fenris didn't breathe for a moment, and was surprised and a little disappointed at the casual tone of Hawke's response.

"Sure.  Brandy sounds good.  A fire sounds better."  Then the keep came into view from behind a tree, and without saying a word, Hawke reached for Fenris' hand, threading their fingers tightly together, and led him up the stairs and inside.

*******

Fenris leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath.  His bare feet were resting comfortably on a stool in front of him, and he flexed and wiggled his toes at the warming heat of the hearth fire in Hawke's room.  His forearms rested on the arms of the chair and held a nearly empty snifter of brandy lightly in his right hand.  Two paces away, the Champion of Kirkwall was doing precisely the same.

The two men began with small talk, which was really so much more than not talking at all.  It was, after all, the middle of the night, and probably not the best time to discuss the things they really needed to.

"I can't believe you crossed Ferelden in seven days.  How?"

Fenris laughed.  "That had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the horse."

Then the silence spread out again, smoothed over by the crackle and pop of the fire.

"I wouldn't have managed here without Varric, you know," the elf said quietly.  "I've been such a shit to him, too."

"Don't worry about Varric, Fen.  He understands you.  It's not personal and he knows it.  Buy him a pint or two and he'll be over it." 

In the warmth and comfort of the chair and the fire, Fenris was able to marvel at the man he still loved.  Hawke casually doled out advice to him, to all of them, like it was the final word on everything.  And it usually was.  He never doubted himself, never second guessed.  He moved through his life like an arrow, never veering or flinching, never hesitating.  His strength and power among his friends was earned, not taken.  It had been earned from Fenris, too.

The elf sipped the remainder of his brandy and closed his eyes again.  Flashes and glimpses of two thousand days and nights together, and suddenly all Fenris could see was how giving the man had always been.  Garrett Hawke had no need to take, and he wouldn't even if he did.  A sinking feeling of guilt began to creep into the warrior's heart.  Whatever else had happened, Hawke had never _taken_ anything from him, least of all control of his life.

"You're pretty quiet over there, Fen," came the low, resonating sound of Hawke's voice.

Fenris opened his eyes, looking down at the empty glass in his hand, spinning it between his fingers.  "I'm sorry for all of this, Hawke."

Hawke sighed, a quiet sound of release, like he'd been holding his breath for days and now, if he was careful, he could try to breathe again.  "I know, Fenris _._ I know."

They were quiet for a minute, the bridge they were building made of spider silk and blown glass, and neither wanted to take a step without thinking.  Hawke stared at the fire, Fenris stared at his empty glass.

"I don't know how I could have left without you, Fen.  All these years , so many enemies.  It was always _when_ we get home, not _if_ we do.  And then that day, I just... something changed.  I was afraid of seeing you die, _da'mi_."

The silence drew out once more, Fenris fighting a crippling urge to go to him, to lay his head in Hawke's lap, arms wrapped tightly around his waist.  Hawke would whisper that he loved him, run his fingers through his hair, and they would be whole again.

He couldn't.  He would be kneeling at the man's feet again, and as much as he wanted things right, he didn't want to be that weak, that fragile.  He didn't even understand how he had gotten that way, but he knew only Hawke brought it out of him.  It was so easy to collapse in his arms, and somehow horribly wrong. 

Fenris stood then and set his glass on the table, stretching languidly, his muscles relaxed from the warm glow of the fire.  "I think it's time for me to go," he said softly.  He looked over at the mage, who stared fixedly at the fire, his glass gripped too firmly in his hand.  When he didn't turn to look at him, Fenris waited only a moment, then silently walked to the door.  "Good night, Hawke," he said over his shoulder, loss and regret already catching in his throat.

Then Hawke spoke, his voice laced with both tenderness and command.  "Fenris, wait."

It was only seconds before Hawke crossed the room, and he stood in front of the elf, their eyes locked, his hands restless at his sides.  Fenris waited, his heart pounding in his chest, barely breathing in anticipation of his touch.

Hawke narrowed his eyes at the elf then, clearly frustrated at their battle of wills. Cupping the elf's jaw with both hands, he pulled him closer and drew their mouths together in a kiss.

Fenris didn't resist. He closed his eyes, feeling the mage's mouth as hot and perfect as it had ever been, then pressing his hands against the hard strength of the mage's chest, he moaned and leaned into him. Hawke felt the elf give, and he tilted his head, sliding their mouths against each other, his hands moving to the warrior's thin waist, pulling him in, their bodies finally together. 

Fenris let himself go.  He let his tongue taste the brandy in the mage's mouth and all of the other things he remembered and longed for.  Their lips softened against each other, and they moved gently, carefully, savoring every slide and press. Fenris drank it in.  He inhaled his breath, delighting in its warmth and feel, but the kiss gave him more than the burning, urgent desire building in his veins.  Hawke was life to him, a glowing beacon of strength and energy in all of the darkness, and the kiss filled Fenris with light, erasing the doubt, the past, the pain.  Everything that was good in the elf's world started here, with the mesmerizing mage, and he took all of it he could.

Hawke broke away,  moving his mouth to the warrior's neck, his hands to his hips.  Fenris gasped softly when he pulled them together, feeling the heat of the mage's desire pressed against his own, and pushed back, rubbing against him, whispering his name as the mage sank his teeth into the offered Elvhen neck, dragging them across his skin, then tracing his tongue flat across the marks he made. 

"Fenris, come to bed with me..." he whispered against the elf's ear, and Fenris could only groan in response, arching harder against him, his mind suddenly flooded with memories of their bodies entwined, his beautiful lover moving inside him... and it was too much. 

This was too easy.  _It was always too easy._ He could break him with a kiss. Was he really tamed, pliant and willing, after one glass of brandy and a kiss?

He pulled his face away from the traitorous kiss, pushing against Hawke's chest with his hands.  "Hawke, no... "  Hawke released his hold on his hips, and Fenris stepped back, catching his breath, shame and sorrow on his face.

Hawke looked at him, his face flushed, confused, angry.  "So, we're still playing games, I see."  His voice was low, tenderness and passion gone.

"It's not a game.  It's - I'm sorry.  I just can't."

Hawke sighed, letting the anger go.  "I'm trying here, Fenris.  I don't know what else you want from me."

Their eyes met again, and Fenris dared to touch his face.  "I don't want anything from you, Hawke.  This is something I want from _me_."

Fenris was at the door before he spoke again, Hawke hadn't even moved.  "I'm sorry about this, Hawke, but I'm not sorry about tonight.  It was good, being here with you.   If you have any time tomorrow... "

Hawke, smiled a gentle smile, suddenly wanting everything to be as good as it had been before the kiss.  "I'll make time, Fen.  Be sure of it."

Fenris returned the smile, then stepped through the door and headed for his room.

 * * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and your fun and helpful comments :)


	12. I Kissed a Mage and I Liked It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last day before the journey to the Fortress of Adamant
> 
> Talking, fighting, smexing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for light D/s, denial of orgasm
> 
> This would never have happened without my friend and beta reader (and editor and better-word-finder), mlp_buttons. 333  
> And thanks to those who wait and read! I'd love to hear from you :)

* * * * * * *

Fenris awoke to the awkward and completely unnecessary weight of Hawke sitting on the edge of his bed.  Well, the part that wasn't crushing the elf's leg was on the edge of the bed anyway.

"Hawke, get off me!" he growled, jerking the offended calf out from under him.  "What are you doing here?"

Hawke waited a minute, watching the elf sit up and rub the sleep from his eyes.  The mage quietly sucked in his breath when the blanket fell away.  Fenris' bared upper body was stunning, all muscles and smooth skin.  The lyrium marks stretched and curled here and there, and Hawke was reminded of tracing them with his tongue somewhere in another lifetime.   The vial was no longer around his neck, and the mage was glad.  Seeing it would have probably provoked things he would have needed to apologize for later.  Still, he wondered what it would take to get him to wear it again.  It held more meaning for Hawke than simply being prepared.

"I've brought breakfast," he said back, deftly concealing his admiration.  "I need your help today, so get out of bed and let's get going." 

"Breakfast?"  Fenris realized he was hungry, and food always put him in a better mood.  "Let's have it then," he said smiling.  He ran his fingers through hair.  Suddenly he was worried about his appearance in front of the mage, and he laughed at himself for it.

"Yes, breakfast.  Some bread, cheese.  An apple..." 

Fenris loved apples, and Hawke knew it.  They were not such an easy thing to come by, but the Inquisition was taking in supplies from all over Thedas, and apples happened to be in one of the crates.

The elf reached for the offered fruit, only to have Hawke snatch it back away.  Fenris narrowed his eyes, just a bit too sleepy for the game.  "Give it to me, Hawke," he said with a playful sneer.  "Come get it," Hawke said back, pulling the apple to his chest, a taunting smile on his lips.

Fenris caught the gleam in Hawke's eye, and instead of leaning forward as the mage planned, he folded his arms across his chest and waited.  "No, I don't think so.  You're up to something, and it's too damned early."

Hawke raised an eyebrow at him then.  "So, you're going to be like that then.  Alright.  Well, I'm kissing you anyway..."

And before Fenris had a chance to stop him, the mage stood and leaned over to kiss him.  The sleepy warrior didn't resist.  He tilted his head back, offering parted lips, and the warm soft feel of Hawke's mouth was just what he had hoped it would be.  The mage looked into his eyes, just once, then stood and turned for the door, throwing the apple back over his shoulder.  He knew the elf had the reflexes to catch it.  "The food is on the desk.  Get dressed and I'll meet you in the hall, alright?"  he said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Fenris fell back on the bed with a flop, a ridiculous grin overwhelming his face.  He took a bite of the apple, closing his eyes as he chewed.  It was going to be a good day.

*******

Less than an hour later, Hawke and Fenris were mounted on horses, picking their way slowly along the trail that led down the side of the mountain.  The sun was out, and warm, and the sky was blue.  The terrain was not very steep, but littered with stones and boulders.  The horses picked their way through with grace.  There couldn't have been a better day for riding.

"So, are you going to tell me why we're out here?"  Fenris asked.  Hawke snorted, "Do we need a reason?" he asked in return, back over his shoulder as the elf's horse rode slightly behind his own.  Fenris laughed.  "Now who's predictable?  I'm not sure why I even asked.  No one questions the Champion of Kirkwall!"  Fenris was kidding, but the mage wasn't laughing.  He pulled up on the reigns and waited for the elf's horse to come up beside him.  "I was kidding, Hawke.  No need to get ...  however you get."

Hawke winced at the bright sun, leaning on the pommel of the saddle.  "I know, Fen.  I wouldn't mind if I never heard that again, though."

"Fair enough, Hawke.  Honestly, I wouldn't mind either," he said with a wink.  "So... why are we out here?"

"Well, about that...."

"You weren't kidding.  There is no reason."

Hawke looked at him, obviously thinking, but only said, "There is no reason, no."  Then he turned back in his saddle and urged his horse on.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Hawke stopped his horse again.  "There, Fenris," he said, pointing a gloved hand at a large, dark boulder, 20 paces away.  "That's where they found you.  That big rock stopped you from sliding over that cliff."

Fenris stared for a moment, some of the memory coming back.  He easily recalled the blizzard, and the desperate loneliness he'd felt that day.  The fall was not as clear.  He should have never come...

"Are you alright, Fen?"  The distant look in the elf's eyes was troubling.  The elf would have never been on the mountain if it wasn't for him.  He would have never been alone. 

Fenris tore his gaze away from the boulder and looked at the mage.  He couldn't help but be reminded he'd been left behind.  He didn't want to be angry and resentful anymore, but there it was, fighting for space in his head again.  His horse shifted, snorting at the wind.

Without another word, Hawke slid over the side of his mount and to the ground.  He turned and reached up with both hands to the elf, offering to help him down.  "Hawke, what ...?"

"Come on, get down," he insisted.

Fenris dismounted, without Hawke's help, and they tied their horses to a nearby tree.  Hawke pulled off his gloves, and shoved them in a saddle bag.  "C'mere," he said.  He didn't wait for an answer, and grabbed the elf's hand, fingers clasped together, and lead him through the brush and rocks to the massive chunk of rock.  Hawke sat down on the sun-warmed boulder, never letting go of Fenris' hand, and Fenris sat down next to him.

"We have to get passed this, _da'mi_.  So, here it is.  This is where you fell.  This is where you almost died trying to get to me, because I was a goliath ass and left you behind."  Fenris squeezed his fingers, at this.  So far it was all true.

"Hawke, you don't have to -” Fenris tried, but Hawke wasn't done.

"Don't say that, Fenris.  Yes, I _do_ have to.  I have to be sorry every day that my fear almost killed you.   You were alone, and I left that ridiculous note, and -"  As though he had never really thought it all the way through, the stunning realization of the elf's pain at finding nothing more than a few words on a page nearly choked him.  "Maker, Fenris.  How can you ever forgive me..."  Hawke let go of the elf and stood.  It wasn't really a question.  In any case, Fenris didn't have the answer. 

The elf put his hands behind him on the stone and leaned back, turning his face to the sun as Hawke walked to the edge of the cliff to gaze out over the valley below.  This was deeper than he thought.  He remembered their argument in the library.  Fenris wouldn't even explain.  He shouldn't have had to.

They were both silent for a long minute, each lost in his own thoughts and regrets.  Then Hawke felt the elf behind him, the slow stretch of his arms wrapping around his waist, and his face relaxing against his back.  Fenris squeezed.

"Hawke, listen to me.  This might take some time.  If I could forget and make it stop hurting, I would.  I cannot.  But you need to know, _ma vhenan_ , that I have already forgiven you.  Someday - _someday_ \- we're going to tell this tale and laugh.  Please, Hawke, we cannot defeat this right now.  Maybe we should just try to survive it."

The elf was right, and Hawke knew it, and Fenris' endearment nearly made his knees buckle.  Only this devil disguised as an elf had ever made him feel this way.

 He turned and faced Fenris, putting his hands to the side of the warrior's face.  His thumbs caressed his cheeks and he smiled.  "So, would you feel better if I brought a team of men up here to hammer this thing into sand?"  He dropped his hands to the elf's waist and drew him in.  Fenris laughed.  "Indeed I might, but _his Worship_ would have your head for the unnecessary use of resources."  They shared a smile at the Inquisitor's expense, and then Hawke kissed the elf, the same soft, gentle kiss of earlier that morning.  Perhaps longer, a little deeper, and then he pulled away and let him go.  Fenris watched his back as he walked to the horses, puzzling at the simplicity of the kiss.

Hawke had his gloves back on and was untying the lead before the stunned elf even took a step.  "Come on, Fen.  We need to get going if I'm going to get you into my bed tonight," he announced with a straight face.

"Hawke -” was all the elf got out before the mage broke out in laughter.    

*******

It was getting close to lunch. Hawke pulled another apple from his pack and passed it to the elf.  He jerked it back when Fenris reached - again - and then winked, and handed it over.  They ate the fruit as they rode, the gentle sway and roll of the horses and the quiet of the day almost hypnotizing.  After awhile they came upon a stream, and dismounted again to let the horses drink.  Fenris waded with bare feet into the icy water, thrilling at the feel of anything but the cold of Skyhold's granite against his soles.

There were more trees on this part of the trail, and the birdsong was soothing, floating through the air with the gentle babble of the stream.  Hawke sat on a fallen tree and watched the elf.  These moments when Fenris let his mood go and enjoyed simple things were few and far between.  Still, he loved him.  In all the time they'd spent together, Hawke still didn't know if his feelings for Fenris were because of the elf's hard edges, or in spite of them.  It didn't matter.  They were perfect together, most of the time.  Hawke had never had much luck with women.  They were too fragile, too delicate.  Those qualities are all fairly nice in bed, but that only got him so far.  Fenris was mostly power and strength, even fury.  And when he wasn't, it was even better.

"So, elf... how about we talk for a minute?"  Hawke threw it out there, fully expecting more stonewalling.  This wasn't his first go at the elf's moods.

His feet were nearly numb now, so Fenris waded back to shore, throwing a sideways glance at the mage.  "Ha!  You said there was no reason to be out here."  He was no fool.  He'd seen this coming all morning.  He sat down next to Hawke on the fallen tree, then turned to face him, wiggling his frozen feet under the warmth of the mage's thigh.  Hawke laughed, raising his leg to make room, then shivering at the cold feel of the elf's frozen feet beneath him.  It was an intimate gesture from Fenris.  Something Hawke realized he needed.  And it was normal, comfortable.  It was _them_.

"So, what do you want to talk about?" Fenris offered, a hint of humor in his tone.   They both knew, of course, that what needed to be talked about most was what the hell was wrong with Fenris.  The elf wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees.  Hawke nearly laughed at the coy look in the elf's eyes.  He was most definitely not that innocent.

"I'm leaving for the Western Approach tomorrow, Fen.  We're either going to figure this out before I go, or we're not.  I'd prefer before."

Fenris looked at him, saying nothing, thinking.  Hawke just watched the water swimming by.  Finally, the elf drew a deep breath.  "I should probably tell you something.  I suppose I'm taking my life in my hands, but it needs to be said."

He watched as the mage curled his fingers into fists, steeling himself for something unpleasant.  Hawke turned his head to face him.  "Your timing, Fenris...  What bad news is this?"  His eyes were cold and made Fenris squirm and wonder if he should just remain silent.  There wouldn't be a better time, so he let the words fly.

"I kissed Dorian.  Before you came back, I - we - it was in the hall, one night after dinner.  I kissed him."

 _And then there was that other time, when kissing had nothing to do with it..._   That part, he rightly thought, might get Dorian killed.  The confession was better left at a kiss.

Hawke looked back at him, not blinking.  Fenris heard the stretch of the mages gloves as his fists curled tighter.

He pulled his feet free and turned, putting them back in the grass, then rested his elbows on his knees, his hands in a knot under his chin.  He wasn't looking, but could feel Hawke's gaze burning into the side of his head.  Still, it was quiet, and the elf waited for the world to end.

The sound of Hawke drawing a deep breath came next, then a chuckle from somewhere deep in his chest.  "You kissed the Tevinter," he said, as the chuckle became a laugh.  "A _Tevinter_ , elf!"  Now Hawke really was laughing, and Fenris turned to stare in amazement.  Hawke stood and took a few steps, letting the laugh quiet into a grin.

"Why is that funny, exactly?"  Fenris asked, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

Then Hawke walked to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and lifted him into an embrace.  "Well, my wicked elf, it's funny because you _despise_ Tevinters.”  Fenris put his arms around the mage's neck, still fairly off balance by Hawke's reaction, but warmed by the arms around him.  "And it's funny because Dorian can't resist your charms," Hawke said, still grinning, his eyes warming," And I know a little something about that."  Their faces were only inches apart, and Fenris felt the mage's body soften, pulling him in.  Hawke's gaze moved from the elf's eyes, down to his mouth, and he wet his lips slightly.  His voice was low when he spoke and Fenris could hear the desire, and something predatory, in the tone.   He shivered.  "So, tell me, elf.  Do you need to be reminded that you are mine?"

Fenris' first reaction was to step back, mouth full of angry words.  He belonged to no one!  But the circuit never completed.  Something hot and razor sharp pierced through his middle, spreading out quickly to his groin.  His mind went white for an instant, suddenly wanting the possessive claim of the mage.  _Needing_ it. 

You are _mine_.

Fenris grabbed the back of Hawke's head with both hands, fingers pulling hard in the hair at his nape.  He arched his body full against him as he pulled their mouths together, and the mage let out a deep groan of surprise and desire.  Fenris kissed him like he needed it to breathe, pushing his tongue into Hawke's mouth, still tugging on the back of his skull, crushing his lips, biting the bottom one, licking the top.  The mage was only startled for a second, and then began to return the desperate attention.

In a moment, their hands were all over each other, frantic.  Their mouths still pressed together, hungry and wet, Fenris tore at the mage's tunic, looking for bare skin and finding it.  He pushed his hands up and under the fabric, dragging his palms across the hard muscled flesh, scrapping his nails over Hawke's abdomen, his hips, then reaching for his laces with a needful moan.

Hawke was panting, overwhelmed with the elf's sudden rush of lust and longing for him.  It was thrilling, erotic, mind numbing.  "Fenris..." he breathed, hot and moist into the warrior's throat.  The elf threw his head back while his fingers struggled with the cords, and Hawke growled and sank his teeth into the offered stretch of the man's neck. 

Fenris finally got the knots free, and the heat of his lover's mouth on his neck, the slide of his tongue, the gentle pain, pulsed and flickered over him everywhere.   He needed more.

Hawke reached for the string of the elf's pants, and Fenris knocked his hands away.  He wanted - _needed_ \- to give, to please.   He turned their tangled, groping bodies around and coaxed Hawke back to the fallen tree.  Arms on the caster's shoulders, their eyes dark and staring at each other, he silently pushed Hawke to sit, then fell to his knees between the mage's legs.

The ground was cold through the fabric of Fenris' trousers, cold and perfect.  The contrast to the stifling, throbbing heat in his cock cooled him, slowed the fire of lust that had taken control.  He breathed deeply, slowly, wanting to feel and remember everything.

Hawke leaned back on the tree behind him, his hands relaxed and waiting on the rough bark of massive log he sat on.  He reclined, pelvis spread and wanting, waiting.  He closed his eyes, fighting to draw a breath over the rush of anticipation.  When Fenris' long fingers curled around the edges of his pants, he lifted his hips and let him pull them down to his knees, then his ankles, unhooking one foot to move between his thighs. 

The elf was shaking, hands trembling.  Maker, he had never wanted the taste of the mage in his mouth this badly.  He ran his hands up Hawke's muscled thighs, somehow nervous, excited.  One hand moved to rest against his hip, the other wrapped around the base of his leaking, swollen cock. Fenris lifted it from Hawke's belly and pulled it to his lips, closing his eyes, taking in the smell of him, the feel of the hard silken flesh in his hand.  He stroked Hawke once, slowly, pulling a desperate sound from the mage, then brushed the head of him smoothly across his still closed mouth.  Fenris thrilled at the soft slide of the hard prick across his lips, the slick smear that it left, letting him slip the head gently, tauntingly, between his lips and out again.  Then he pressed his tongue flat, licking across the slit, finally tasting the warm, liquid desire of the mage.

Hawke was coming apart.  The elf had never taken this much time, never tasted him like that.  Not as though he wanted this as much as the mage did.  Not so deliberately.  He moved his hips, just barely, unable to be still, and the sound the warrior made shook him to the core.

Fenris groaned, feeling the mage move, and pulled him, hard and wonderful, into his mouth.  Hawke shuddered and tilted his head back as the elf tightened his lips around him.  Fenris loved the hard press of him against the roof of his mouth, slippery against the inside of his cheek.   He sucked him in deeper, the head of his cock tickling the back of his throat.  He pulled back, his grip sliding up, pushing against his lips.  Then down again, sucking, tasting, quiet little moans humming from his throat.  He lifted his mouth back again, teasing the edge of the mage's foreskin with his tongue until he felt him twitch, heard the catch of his breath.  Hawke leaned forward, taking the weight off his hands and Fenris felt his fingers in his hair, the subtle act of control sending a new wave of arousal through the elf's body, and a moan escaped the seal of his lips, wrapped firm and wet around the mage's cock. 

Fenris floated in a haze.  The sounds of the stream were gone, the forest silent.  All that he could hear was Hawke above him, quietly moaning, his breath growing more ragged with every stroke.   Fenris wanted so desperately to please him.  Wanted Hawke to look at him with those eyes and praise him for his beautiful mouth.  The thought of it became a sound, and it rolled through his chest and into the forest air.  He was harder now himself than he could remember ever being, but his own climax wouldn't matter until he felt the man release.

He drew the caster's cock deeper into his mouth, to his throat.  Tiny stabs of pain shot a warning through him, and his eyes watered, but he swallowed against it, taking in more.

Hawke's grip in Fenris' hair tightened, and his care for Fenris' throat was getting harder to manage.  He could feel him relaxing, opening, and thrust into his mouth, just enough to see if he could. Fenris groaned at the intrusion, then pressed his thumb into the sliding flesh at the base of Hawke's cock, and the mage gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Fenris... I'm...

Fenris slid down, the last bit, until Hawke was fully in his throat.  The mage groaned loudly, forgetting caution completely, pulling the elf's hair as his fists tightened and he moved him on his shaft, Fenris urging him on with whimpers and moans.  Over and over, he slid his mouth, lips firm and tight, down the hard and saliva slicked length of the mage, then deeper into his throat again.  Hawke's fingers knotted in his hair, pushing and guiding him, sent Fenris to the edge.  Hawke was close, and Fenris couldn't wait to make him let go, then a moment later, the elf felt the mage stiffen, thigh muscles going hard and taunt.

"Fenris...”

Fenris felt him break, the orgasm shaking through his body.  He pulled off gently, sucking and stroking as he went, feeling the pulse of ejaculate run through Hawke's cock under his fingers before it burst, warm and pungent and wonderful, into his mouth and across his tongue.  He swallowed, sucking and pulling gently, coaxing the last bit from the mage, relishing the taste of him and the gasping and panting he'd brought out of him. 

Fenris stayed on his knees waiting for Hawke to recover.  He nuzzled his face into the hollow of the mage's hip, catching his breath, softly kissing the salty taste of his skin, thumbs drawing circles in the fur of Hawke's thighs.  He rested, waiting.

Hawke opened his eyes.  He untangled his fingers from Fenris' hair, and gently brushed it from his face.  The elf looked up at him, something like need in his eyes, and the mage knew.  He stood, tucking himself in, then pulled the elf up to him, looking at him.  "Maker, you take my breath away.  You are so good to me, Fen," he said softly, then kissed him, slowly and carefully, licking the smears from his lips.  Then Hawke untied the laces of the elf's pants, and pulled his desperately aching erection free of the binding cloth.  Fenris groaned and fell against him, shaking as Hawke touched and stroked the few seconds it took for the elf to release, and held him tight against his chest until he knew that the last shuddering waves were done.

*******

It was Fenris that pulled away, when he'd finally caught his breath.  He didn't look up.  He pulled a few leaves from a nearby tree and quietly wiped the ejaculate from his belly.  It would have to do.

He heard Hawke laugh softly and looked up at him, pulling his tunic down, readjusting everything else.  "Something funny, mage?"  He offered, something distant and completely foreign for the moment in his voice, hitting Hawke's ears with the sound of a slamming door.

"Fen.....?"  Hawke felt his blood run cold.  He took the steps to Fenris and reached for his hand, but the elf pulled away.  Their eyes met, both of them suddenly rigid and uncompromising.  A moment before it was too late, Fenris forced a smile and took Hawke's hand.  "We should get back to the keep," he said, not too warmly.  "I really need to get changed and eat something."  He smiled again, and Hawke knew it wasn't real. 

_Thanks for the heart stopping climax, Fenris.  Oh, and, what the hell is going on with you?_

"Right, Fenris.  The keep," was the only thing he said. 

They rode back to the keep in silence.  Fenris wasn't talking, and Hawke had had just about as much of Fenris' mood swings as he could take.

*******

When they arrived back at the rush and crowd of Skyhold, they both dismounted and Hawke took the reins of the elf's horse.  As Fenris turned to walk away, the mage grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him in close enough for a whisper to be heard over the noise of the courtyard.

"Fenris, look at me.  Damnit, I said, look at me," he ground out through clenched teeth.  Fenris narrowed his eyes, first looking angrily at the grasp Hawke had on his wrist, then up to the mage's eyes.

"I'm only going to say this once, Fen.  This morning, being with you, the fallen tree, all of it.  It was better than magic, Fenris.  You and me, like we should be.  And I wasn't done.  You've got something eating at you, that's clear.  You don't want to talk to me about it.  That's also clear.  But damnit elf, I'm leaving _tomorrow_.  Don't you understand that we don't have time for this?"

Fenris softened, just enough for Hawke to see, so he let go of the elf's wrist and went on.  " _Da'mi_ , you know you can talk to me, but failing that, don't push me away.  Not today."

Hawke heard the change in his own voice, a weakness, pleading, that rubbed him the wrong way.  His fear of losing Fenris for good was like a cancer.  Every day that went by he was sicker and sicker with it.  And nothing was getting through.  He straightened, putting his fingers under the elf's chin.  "I'm going to put the horses away, then I'm going back to my room to change.  I'll expect you in an hour.   We'll find some food and see where that takes us."  The seconds ticked off in his head like hours, waiting for the elf to speak.  Finally he did, his voice low and somehow choked, and the hint of sadness in it made Hawke cringe. 

"Yes, that'll be time enough.  I'll see you in an hour," Fenris said, attempting a smile.  Then from nowhere, the elf reached up and squeezed Hawke's shoulder, kissed him quickly but fully on the lips, and walked away.

Hawke just stared as he disappeared.  The elf was trying to kill him slowly, he was sure of it.

*******

Fenris nearly ran to his room.  He couldn't stop his head from reeling. 

 _You are mine_... and then he broke.  Something shifted.  It was like he became someone else.  He didn't want to just offer his lover sex.  He _needed_ to.  Maker, what was the man doing to him?

And then, of all the things in Thedas that could go wrong, _Dorian_ approached from the opposite end of the stone corridor when Fenris was only steps away from welcome solace of his room.  He sighed, the panic over Hawke and his personal collapse into insanity fell away and was immediately replaced by the dread of a conversation he had been hoping to avoid until his death.

Their eyes met, for just an instant, and they both _knew_ it was still there.  And they both ignored it.

"Fenris!  How nice to see you!" from Dorian, who was as charming and handsome as ever.  But the elf was no fool.  He saw the sarcasm and veiled hostility in his eyes.

"Dorian.  Look, can we not do this?   I really need to get out of these clothes and -”

Dorian put his hand to his mouth and nearly giggled, looking Fenris over once.  "Indeed, I think perhaps you do.  Things progressing nicely with the Champion, I see?" he drawled.

"What are you -” Fenris followed the altus' gaze down to the grass stains on his knees, and wanted nothing more than to liquefy and seep into the cracks of the masonry beneath his feet - or phase a hand through the mage's chest.

He wasn't going to let the lecherous Tevinter see that, however, so he turned up the corner of his mouth in a smile that promised there was more to the story and said simply, "Yes, as a matter of fact, things could not be better."

Surprised that he was unable to bait the elf, Dorian's smile fell then, and the viciousness in his eyes softened.  He said quietly, sincerely, "Alright, Fenris.  My apologies.  I'm being an ass.  Let me start again." In true theatrical fashion Dorian turned completely around, waited for a beat, and then faced him again.

"Fenris, my friend, how nice to see you.  I noticed you were riding this morning.  How is the weather outside?"  Dorian's tone was nearly comical, and his mannerism definitely was.  Fenris looked at him in disbelief, and then they both started laughing.

Fenris felt a weight lift off him, the laughter sending happy endorphins through his blood that quieted the apprehension over running into the Tevinter, and stilled his mind about Hawke.

"How's the weather?  Did you just ask me _how's the weather?"_   They laughed again.

Quiet again, Fenris attempted a more serious tone.  "I really do need to get changed,” and he looked at his knees again out of something like habit, and Dorian grinned.  Fenris smiled back, "Laugh if you must.  It was worth it," he winked.  And the altus smiled, staring for a moment, then visibly shook it off before turning to walk away.  Fenris stopped him a second later.

"Dorian... " The mage turned slowly back around, one eyebrow raised.  Fenris took a breath, trying to call forth a trace of the friendship they'd almost shared.  "I owe you an apology.  I had no right - I shouldn't have - I'm just sorry.  I wish you well in Orlais, and with the Herald."  Dorian looked at him intently, tilting his head, then he looked down at his hands, his feelings for the Herald momentarily worn on his sleeve.  Fenris was surprisingly moved by this, and said, "You know, you shouldn't be so hard on the fluff and romance of the south, as you put it.  There really is something to be said for such things."  The elf had softened, all the hard edges gone, just for now.  Dorian looked up and saw the man he had seen that night, sitting on the cold stones right where they stood now.

"I believe you are right, Fenris.  There certainly is," he answered.   "I will accept your apology, but only if you accept mine.  I might have enjoyed making you tremble - " and he cleared his throat, offering a wicked smile for just an instant, " - but it was a horrible thing to do, and I am indeed sorry."  He paused then, letting it sink in to both of them, then took a step forward.

"Are you alright, Fenris?  Of course it's none of my business, but I - I worry about what tomorrow might mean for you."  His eyes were warm, and it was all Fenris could do to stop the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat at the thought.  But he did.

"Thank you, Dorian," he said back, flatly.  "I appreciate your kindness, but I'm not thinking about that today."

The mage quickly cleansed his face of sympathy, knowing how the elf would despise it just then. "No, of course you're not.  Very well then.  If I don't see you again, may the Maker watch over you, Fenris.  It has been my pleasure," and Dorian tipped his head, turned and walked away.

Fenris wondered for a moment if he would ever see the fascinating Tevinter again.  He found that he hoped he would, and that Trevelyan would still be with him.  The challenges they faced seemed insurmountable.

But he wasn't thinking about that today.

*******   

Skyhold keep was swarming with activity.  The Inquisitor and his band of allies were leaving the next day for the Western Approach.  The Gray Wardens were disappearing and it seemed the Master of Blight was to blame.  They would seek out the source, and if they were lucky enough, end it.  Preparations for the journey across Orlais had everyone involved in the Inquisition busy, from the blacksmith's sharpening of swords, to the cook's preparation of food that would withstand the travel.

By the time Fenris had bumped and dodged past and through all of the scurrying activity, bathed and dressed, the hour had passed.  More importantly, he had finally - _finally_ \- figured things out.

Hawke was right; they had only today left between them.  Fenris had seen the look in the mage's eyes, as he tried once again to reach him, remind him of how good it could be between them.  Initially angry, because he was not struggling with these things by choice, he heard the truth of the mage's words and kissed him in some half of a promise to make it as right as he was able, and walked away determined.  The warrior did not want this lingering doubt, this ache of weakness he felt with the mage.  He wanted to know what this meant as much as Hawke wanted him to, and he was prepared to face whatever truth he must.  He had lain in the tub, eyes closed, confronting the moments that seemed to matter the last few days.

 _You are **mine**_... Hawke had said the words and a flood of lust and passion had overwhelmed the elf's senses.

 _Isn't this how you like it?_... The elicit moment in the stairwell with Dorian.  Indeed, as badly as the encounter had ended, Fenris would not deny that he had liked it.  He had made no effort to escape it.

 _You need him, don't you?_   The first thing Dorian said to him, after the failed kiss.  This had been the hardest part for the elf.  All of Dorian's talk of need had never really made sense.  Fenris had escaped slavery, alone, killing countless enemies in the process.  He had fought against even more enemies beside Hawke, Varric and the others.  Fenris was an astonishing example of self-determination and strength.   To suggest that he needed anything or anyone was ridiculous, and so, he had fought rabidly against the idea.  Only, this was not the same need at all.

Being Garrett Hawke's lover was not an easy task.  The mage was, of course kind and generous, but he was also confident, stubborn, often controlling, and sometimes arrogant.  He carried all of these qualities, good and bad, with the ease and grace of Andraste herself.  Only Hawke’s enemies doubted his judgment, a fault that often ended in their death.  To his friends, he was a pillar of strength, someone they could turn to for advice, a laugh, or even vengeance.  He was fierce, determined and unwavering, and when he walked into a room his presence commanded everyone’s attention.

Fenris, on the other hand, despised attention, and was more than happy to go unnoticed in the sometimes glaring presence of the mage.  They were in perfect balance that way, right from the beginning.  Fenris would watch heads turn when the Champion came into a room.  Then he would lean in a corner, gratefully invisible, and wait for the warm glances and subtle smiles that Hawke never forgot to send over the heads of those who inevitably gathered around him. The elf would sometimes join in, but his withering look and the swirls of white in his skin often dampened the mood, and he'd whisper in Hawke's ear, allow himself just one possessive hand on the mage's shoulder, and retreat back into the relative calm of the shadows.

And then, regardless of anything else, they would go home and Hawke would take him to bed and remind him that nothing in all of Thedas mattered as much to the mage as the shy and withdrawn warrior elf.

Yes, perfect balance.  And then Hawke had left Fenris behind, and the balance tipped.

 _You need him, don't you?_   Need was a strange and uncomfortable word for Fenris.  He had grown accustomed to his role with Hawke, sometimes at his feet, and it hadn't felt anything like need at the time, just a quiet, safe, willing complacency.  Hawke's management of their life together was not controlling or demanding, it was just _there_.  And then it wasn't.  Looking back now, the elf could see that the mage's sudden absence had sparked a fear in him.  Who would lead him - all of them - across the mountains, or along the shore, fearlessly seeking justice or vengeance?  Who would remind him that he was no longer a slave, when he woke in a trembling sweat from a nightmare filled with blood magic, shackles and pain?  Who else would ever have the world at their feet as the Champion did, and only want it so he could share it with _him_? 

Yes, he needed him.

With reluctance Fenris admitted that he had missed the quiet and sure control of the mage's reigns on him.  His body's response to restraint, to command, it was all just a desperate longing to fall back into that comfortable place.  The place where he was sheltered and protected, loved.  Hawke's possession of him, his body and his life, made him feel worthy, necessary, _alive_. 

 _You are mine._   And suddenly the only response Fenris could imagine was, "Please, Hawke, let me always be yours."

 _This_ was how he felt about Garrett Hawke.  Good or bad or anything, he _was_ Hawke's, and now that he understood, it was the perfect thing to be.

He wanted to run to him.  Tell him.  He wanted to kneel in front of him, lay his face against him and know the caress of his fingers upon his cheek.  He wanted to burst into Hawke's room and give himself to him, clinging and desperate.  Feel the mage's claim of him, hard and deep and demanding.  Fenris wanted to let go, to give everything, to submit to the hurricane force of the mage, and be unashamed.

And he couldn't.

As soon as the elf accepted what Hawke meant to him, he knew he couldn't tell him.  With the exception of the occasional moment of tenderness and intimacy between him and the mage, Fenris had always been strong.  He was, after all, a warrior, made of fury and steel, the power of lyrium coursing across and through his muscle and bone.  This was the man Hawke loved.  He could never love a man who clung to him, who shuddered before him.  Who needed him.

So, as Fenris took the last steps to reach Hawke's door, he put things in order in his head.  They would have their last, best day.  He would be all that Hawke knew him to be, wanted him to be.  And while he waited for Hawke's return from Adamant, he would train and remember the warrior inside, and put the trembling ache he felt away for good.  Hawke never needed to know, would never have to decide if he could still want Fenris this way.  And they could say goodbye tomorrow together and whole again. 

 He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

*******

Hawke, in still damp hair and fresh breeches and tunic, opened the door.  Fenris smiled just slightly, and brushed past him, the smell of soap and fresh linen from the mage stirring his blood.

"Well then, come in, Fenris."  Hawke peered at him closely.  The anger was gone.  What was the rest of this nonsense?

Fenris, doing his best to wear the face of the warrior again, narrowed his eyes.  "I'm here.  What do you have planned for us?"

Hawke, knowing the frustrating elf as he did, had to resist the urge to smile.  He wasn't sure what game Fenris was playing this time, but he was quite sure it was a game.  Without any warning, he lifted Fenris off the floor, took the three steps to the bed, and unceremoniously tossed him onto the covers.

Hawke fell on the bed next to him with a "hmff," propping himself up on one elbow.   The angry and startled elf opened his mouth to protest, but Hawke gently laid a hand across his lips, silencing him. 

"Alright, elf.  Here's what I have planned," he said smiling, his eyes warm as they looked down at Fenris.  "I'm going to kiss you, and that chip on your shoulder you came in with is going to melt away like snow on a summer day.   Then you're going to look at me, the same way you did this morning, and tell me you love me."

Fenris, whose body had responded with immediate longing at Hawke's rough handling, exhaled against the mage's hand, blinking slowly, and nodded with a tiny tilt of his chin.

Long tendrils of Hawke's hair hung down the sides of his face, and from nowhere, Fenris wanted to touch them.  The mage's unbound hair was one of the elf's favorite parts of him.  He reached up, a pale finger pushing a twist of dark hair to one side.   Hawke's eyes glazed over at the sudden tenderness, and he slid his hand from the elf's mouth down to his neck, leaning over to kiss him.

Fenris moved his hand from the mage's cheek to slip through the hair behind his neck, and arched his body into the kiss.  The passion of the elf stirred something inside Hawke, a quiet sigh escaping his throat.  He deepened the kiss, feeling Fenris' moist breath against his mouth, their lips sliding, pressing.  He felt the elf move against him again, and he cautiously shifted his hand to glide down Fenris' arm to his hip, pressing a thumb into the space at his hip bone.  Fenris drew a sharp breath, wanting the mage to touch him, and then Hawke did, pressing the palm of his hand against the nearly hard line of the elf's cock showing through the fabric of his pants.

Fenris moaned.  Sucking in his breath, he lifted his hips against the mage's hand, and Hawke pushed back, just once, before he broke the kiss, and the caress.  "Ah, Fenris..." Hawke spoke in a low, seductive voice, broken with desire.  "Spend the rest of the day in bed with me, my wicked elf.  It's been so long..."

Fenris wanted nothing more, but his careful veneer of strength was already crumbling.  "Mmm, I have missed you too, mage," he said, reluctantly dragging himself out from under Hawke, and finally finding his feet on the floor again, "but I'm hungry, and you did say something about food."  _That was better_.

Hawke rolled back against the bed, a groan of resignation belting out of his chest.  Fenris chuckled.  "You'll live, _ma vehnan_.  Get up and let's find lunch."  Hawke sat up, threw a withering glare at the elf, then stood and readjusted the seam of his pants.  "You are trying to kill me.  I'm sure of it now," he growled in jest at the elf.  He ran his fingers through his hair and tied it with a cord from the desk.  "Lead the way, Fen,” he said, opening the door, and Fenris did.

*******

It turns out that the best place to find food in a keep is in the aroma filled halls of the massive kitchen.  Hawke and Fenris figured this out early, and after taking a few wrong turns down the long, dark and cold stair ways, they finally found it.

Included in the catacomb of rooms were four fires, one of them simply massive.  There were racks and racks of pots, buckets of water, great tubs filled with clean and dirty dishes.  There were herbs and dried fruits and vegetables hanging on hooks and strings in every corner.   Each room had a large, heavy wooden table at its center, some of them stacked with bowls and covered jars, others empty and flat, waiting for its turn with flour and dough.

Fenris was sitting on one, eating an apple, trying not to lose himself to laughter as he listened to a well-soiled cook shout at his lover from a nearby room. 

"I said, no!  If yur hungry, I'll find ya' somethin'.  Yur not gonna mess up this kitchen with yurself and that elf, and I don't care what you think yur champion of!"

Hawke came back into the room, cheeks flushed and laughing.  "I guess I won't cook for you then," he said with a wink, as he casually moved himself between Fenris' knees.  He rested his hands on the elf's hips, and felt a warm rush roll through him at the normalness of being this way with each other.

Fenris put the apple core down and crossed his arms behind Hawke's neck.  "That's probably for the best, isn't it?"

They kissed.  It was a simple, soft, apple-y kiss, and for awhile, neither of them even remembered their trouble of the last two weeks.  They could have been in their kitchen in Amaranthine, the Wardens safe, the return of a more evil Blight no longer over their heads.  Fenris knew it was too good to last.

"So, elf, about Dorian..."

Fenris chuckled.  "There is nothing to tell.  It was a kiss, that ended badly.  There is nothing between us, and you certainly have nothing to be jealous of.  Let's leave it at that."

"I thought Dorian and the Inquisitor had a thing.  What about _them_?"  Hawke steered away, at least for now.

"They do.  Dorian confessed to him the next day."

"And?"

"And _they're_ fine.  The Herald refuses to let me travel with all of you, however.  He won't even speak to me."

Hawke sighed, and Fenris moved his hands from the mage's neck to his waist.  "Don't worry about it, Hawke.  We both know what's coming tomorrow."

"The Inquisitor does not tell me who I travel with, Fenris.  If you want to go, you'll go."

The elf thought it odd that they would wait until now to talk about this.  They had both been avoiding the fact of Hawke leaving all day.  And they both knew Fenris wasn't going. 

"I don't need you to handle it for me, Hawke.  I'm injured.  The last thing you need on this trip is a wounded companion."

Hawke slid his hands down the elf's thighs and back up, rubbing his thumbs into his hips.  Fenris looked down, then up into the mage's eyes.  He was letting Dorian bother him again.  "It was nothing, Hawke.  No need to get possessive."  The caster's next words seemed to come from nowhere, and sent a shiver of anger - and desire - through the elf.

"I'll decide when to be possessive of you, elf."  Hawke's voice was low, and the words held no humor, no tenderness.  They were heavy, predatory, and Fenris couldn't decide whether to be angry or to want him more.  He pushed him out of his way, both hands to the mage's chest, and slid off the table, hating that his body was responding to the edge in Hawke's voice like it was. 

_Possess me..._

He couldn't say that.  He couldn't tell him how those words sent blood to his groin, made his heart pound faster.  He needed to get away.

"Of course you decide, mage.  You always do, don't you?" he ground out between hard set lips.  He headed out of the kitchen, food long forgotten.  Just before he opened the door, he felt the mage's hard grasp on his wrist.  Hawke spun him around.

"Stop, Fenris," Hawke growled, glancing around the room to know who would hear.

The weight of the man's demanding lock on his wrist quickly shifted Fenris from frustrated desire to real anger, and he narrowed his eyes, taking an all too familiar posture against threat, body turned, legs apart.   Once again, he looked at the Ferelden's grip on his arm, then up into his eyes.  "That is the second time today you've pushed your luck with me, mage.  Do you think I take your restraint of me lightly?"  he seethed.  Without hesitating, he called on the lyrium, his arm suddenly glowing blue as it melted into the Fade, and he pulled himself free.

Hawke flinched, just barely, pulling his hand back instinctively.  They stared at each other.  Each now too concerned with the time steadily ticking by before Hawke was supposed to leave.  After several tense moments, the mage broke first, lowering his eyes from the elf's.  He took a step back, rubbing his face with one hand.  Fenris relaxed, just enough, and waited, unable to think of anything to say.

Finally Hawke spoke, his voice lowered, still heavy with anger.  "Fenris, did you think it would be alright that you kissed another man?  That we would never have this discussion?"  Hawke was furious, and heartbroken, and heartbroken wasn't something he did very well.  He had tried to laugh, tried to ignore the ridiculous jealousy that attempted to overwhelm him at Fenris' confession.  There just wasn't enough time to waste.  But the image of the elf in Dorian's arms continued to burn in his brain.  And so, here they were, wasting time on it anyway. 

"No, I did not.  You laughed when I told you.  What has changed?"

"All that changed was my ability to ignore it, elf, and it seems I no longer can.  I want to know what happened.  Now."

Fenris stared at him.  Of course he wasn't able to escape this fight.  Why had he even thought he would? 

"Hawke, I was tired.  I was lonely, missing you, hating you.  He was there when I was weak, and I kissed him.  I was in tears before it was over, alright?  Just forget it."

"You what?"

" _Fenedhis_ , Hawke!  You left me!  Have you forgotten already?  Did you think I wouldn't have weakness?  Did you think I wouldn't need comfort?  I fell apart because it wasn't you.  Better?"  Fenris turned his back to the mage, breathing heavily, his thoughts shifting quickly between anger and painful memories.  He hated Hawke for this, for leaving him, for putting him through all of this.  Mostly for putting _them_ through all of this.  Everything had been so good in Amaranthine. 

"Fenris ..." Hawke started, and couldn't finish.  The elf was right.  He took a step forward and put his hand on his shoulder.  "Fenris, I'm sorry.  I can't take it back.  That doesn't make it easier to think of you with him.  Maker, Fen, I thought I was - that we -"

Before he could finish, the elf was overtaken by the very thing he was trying so hard to hide, and he turned around and leaned into him, and looped his arms around his waist.  "No, Hawke.  I'm sorry," he whispered against his chest.  _For Dorian, for everything_.

Standing there in the kitchen of the keep, smells and sounds everywhere, maids and butlers scooting by as though the pair didn't exist, for just a moment they clung to each other.  Both guilty, both forgiving, both wanting more than anything to repair the damage done, to move on to whatever lay ahead and find their way back to each other.

Hawke pulled Fenris close, one hand at his neck, gently caressing his hair.  He pressed his face against the soft white strands.

"I love you, Fenris," he whispered.

 _I love you._   He pulled away, smoothing his tunic, making an effort at being casual.  It was too much.  He was crumbling, near tears.  He wanted the mage to hold him, comfort him, say those words over and over.  But he couldn't let Hawke see him like this.  He couldn't let Hawke leave tomorrow thinking Fenris had fallen apart.

He smiled at the mage's puzzled look, and really just wanted to kiss him, but just then the cook finally arrived with a basket of food and they were promptly chased out of the kitchen before either had a chance to say, or do, anything more.

*******

Ten minutes later, they were sitting cross-legged facing each other on a very soft rug in Hawke's room.  The basket was emptied and there were chunks of meat and cheese spread around on a blue cloth.  There was bread, some grapes, a pear.  They ate, and laughed, Hawke having brought up a forgotten adventure from Kirkwall that had them both nearly in tears at the retelling.  It was always that way; no matter the challenge they faced, time softened the edges and a nightmare became a fairy tale when it was remembered again. 

An hour had passed and the food was gone.  Fenris threw the last grape at Hawke, hitting him in the cheekbone.  "What next, mage?" 

"I think that's obvious, Fenris."  Hawke looked up at the elf, a smirk on his face, a slightly obvious gleam in his eyes.

"Oh, I see," Fenris drawled.  "Well then, let's get it over with, if we must."  He stood and began to untie his laces, the corners of his mouth upturned, suppressing a grin.

Hawke stood up quickly in front of him, knocking the elf's hands away with a smile.  "Obviously, you have no idea how _that's_ going to go, my wicked elf.  No, that's not what I had in mind.  Not yet."

"Is that right, mage?  Are you trying to frighten me?  Do you intend to rip the very clothes from my back?"  Fenris was nearly overcome with silliness, batting his eyelashes and being coy.

Hawke laughed too, then pulled him into his arms.  Their eyes met and they kissed.  The mage heard a quiet sound of contentment from the elf and really believed they were going to be okay.

"What was supposed to be obvious, Fen, was a pint or three with Varric.  Sound good?"

"Indeed it does."

 *******

Two hours later, after too many drinks and almost enough revelry with Varric and the other patrons of the tavern, Hawke and a very slightly swaying Fenris, said their good nights to everyone.  It was late and the keep was quiet but for the occasional last minute detail that sent a worried member of the Inquisition scurrying through the halls.

Once in the main hall, they stopped and faced each other.  Hurried and nervous words over what was next gushed from them both at the same time.

"Fenris -”

"Hawke -"

They both chuckled and Fenris' fingers curled nervously at his sides.  He let the mage go first.

"Fenris..." and couldn't finish.  Hawke growled, turning away, running his fingers through the hair at the top of his head. 

The elf put a hand on his arm, turning him back around.  Fenris' eyes twinkled with desire, the beginnings of a smile on his lips.  "If you'll give me a minute,  I'll meet you upstairs."

Hawke said nothing back.  There was a fierceness in his eyes that bored straight through the elf, sending a shiver of anticipation through every limb.  The mage nodded his head and turned for the stairs.

Fenris reminded himself to take deep breaths as he walked to his room. 

Maker no, nothing would keep him out of the mage's bed tonight.  Not moods, not hesitation.  He laughed to himself.  Just thinking of Hawke's hands on him had him aroused, and he wondered how he had ever said no to begin with.  It was probably the wine, but he didn't care.  He was excited, anxious, distantly concerned about how rough Hawke would be after waiting this long.  He shuddered, thinking about it.  The truth of it was, he wanted Hawke to break him apart.  But he would weaken, and tremble, and Hawke would know he'd grown fragile, become something else.  Fenris shook his head.  He had to find a way to keep his wits about him.

Once back in his room, the elf stripped and put on the silken night clothes that had been left in his room.  He laughed at the ridiculousness of preparing for a night with the man he'd already spent six years with, but the soft fabric felt good on his skin, and "being ready" was creating an anticipation in him that was intoxicating. 

The last part wasn't as easy.  Fenris slid the desk drawer open and lifted the corded vial from inside.  _My wicked elf_.  He felt his face flushing with the memory, as it always did.  The oil was still safely inside, but the meaning of wearing it again was more the point.  Hawke would see it, and know.  He would know that Fenris loved him, wanted him, had come back to him.  He lifted the cord over his neck, and looking at the tiny Amell crest fixed to the outside, tucked it into his tunic.  He straightened and exhaled, long and slow, then headed through the door and upstairs to Hawke's room.

*******

Hawke opened the door and Fenris stepped inside.  The elf leaned back against the door, the quiet click of the latch startling in the deafening silence of the room.

Their eyes met, Hawke's piercing and wild, and a thousand words passed between them. That single look conveying every want and desire they had ever held for each other, rendering words unnecessary. 

Before the true meaning of that look registered with the elf, Hawke had him pressed hard against the door; his body easily trapping the smaller frame of the elf, Fenris’ wrists now held in unrelenting fingers, tight and unmovable on either side of his head.  Hawke shoved his knee between the elf's legs, pressing his thigh up hard into the rapidly swelling hardness in the other man's groin and leaned his greater weight against him.  Fenris’ subconscious began to awaken. His body responding to the primal dominance the mage held over him.  He couldn’t move, pinned in place, it was difficult to even breathe... and nothing had ever felt so good.

Then Hawke kissed him, his tongue sliding and tasting every inch of Fenris' mouth.  It swept over the elf's lips, his tongue, then licked at the corner of his mouth, hungry and demanding.  He pressed the kiss harder, the painful crush of the mage's lips thrilling the elf, who could only wiggle, and grind against the hot, hard plane of Hawke's muscled thigh.

The mage was reeling.  His want of Fenris had reached blinding levels even before the elf came through the door, and his own decision to take it slow had been lost a second later, forgotten the instant their eyes met.  His mind was shouting to slow down, but his body wouldn't listen... and Fenris’ reaction was urging him on without words.

Hawke groaned - or growled.  Something came from deep in the mage's chest and he released the elf's wrists, hands drifting down to his waist.  His mouth moved away from the kiss, dragging teeth and tongue along the Fenris’ jaw, nibbling at the hinge, then down the length of skin and muscle, tasting the salty warmth of his skin.

The elf's body responded to every touch, every caress.  Every movement of the mage's mouth and hand sent shivers of long awaited bliss through his lyrium lined body. Fenris stretched his neck, begging for the mage's teeth, each nibble sending sparks of delight and pain spiraling through his desperate body.  His hands, once free, threaded through Hawke's nape, pulling the mage’s mouth into the begging flesh of his throat, as quiet sounds fell from it with the mark of every bite.  Then the caster’s broad, hot hands were under his tunic, pressing and sliding against his abdomen, his chest, his hips, nails raking across his skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.  Fenris had to stop the groan of desire in his throat as his mind reeled from Hawke's ministrations.  The struggle between hiding his weakness and need, versus accepting and melting into the moment, hit him full force.  He didn't want him to know how much he missed this, how much he _needed_ this.

Hawke pulled back, breathless.  Their eyes met again, glazed with lust and abandon.  The mage turned up the corner of his mouth, not smiling but warm.  He leaned back in, planting small kisses on the tender flesh of the elf's neck, lathing his tongue after them.  "Take your clothes off, elf," he whispered, biting and kissing again.  Before he pulled back, Fenris’ fingers were obeying his every word, undoing his tunic, never questioning, never saying a thing.

_Take your clothes off, elf..._

Fenris felt the conflict between his heart and his mind jump tenfold.  He should be saying no, he should be telling the mage that he doesn’t take commands.  But his body was trembling, aching with longing.  Hawke's words sent a pulse of passion through him that he didn't want to deny.  The clothes would not come off fast enough.  He finished undressing with shaking hands, feeling the soft silk slide over his anxious skin as it fell to a pool on the floor.  Hawke watched as the fabric fell, revealing the hard, perfect lines of the elf's body, the beautiful white swirls of the lyrium burned into his flesh.  Fenris was not ashamed, his darkened green eyes glinting with pride...and a dare.

Hawke's gaze fell to the elf's lyrium lined cock, and he felt a new throb of desire in his groin.  Not caring about who was in control, the mage accepted the dare and fell to his knees at the warrior’s feet.  Without his hands, he took the leaking, swollen prick greedily between his lips and sucked it into his mouth.  The long stifled groan in Fenris' throat escaped at last without warning and the elf shuddered at the sharp spike of pleasure that coursed through him.  He threaded his fingers through the mage's hair, eyes closing.  Hawke pressed his thumbs into the elf's hips, stilling his unconscious thrusts, pushing down on the elf as far as he could, reveling the fullness of him in his mouth.  He pulled back with wet, tight lips, humming with eagerness, then slid his tongue in swirls over the tip, before pulling him in again.

"Maker, Hawke... stop..."  Fenris was near the edge.  One more lick of that perfect tongue and he'd be done.

It wasn't enough yet for Hawke.  He wanted to shake the elf apart, feel him shudder and come in his mouth, wanted to taste the warm, silky liquid on his tongue.  Then he wanted to kiss the elf and share it with him.  He didn't stop.

Fenris came with the power of a thunderbolt, the pulses of climax that spread up and through him almost painful.  Hawke moaned and sucked, swallowing and tasting until he felt the elf buckle and fall away from the door.  He stood, catching his quivering lover in his arms, stroking the last tremors of orgasm from him with his hand.  He touched his face, whispered in his ear, held him, waiting for him to recover until he could stand again, then lead him to the comfort and warmth of the rug in front of the fire. 

Laying in the warm glow, the elf began to realize this was never going to work.  He couldn't pretend. He didn't want to pretend.  He had tried, and in minutes was little more than a twisted, boneless heap in the mage's arms.  And it was too good to deny.  He _wanted_ this.  He wanted to let go, to break if Hawke wanted to break him. 

When Hawke started undoing his tunic, Fenris knelt in front of him and untied his laces. "I told you to wait, mage," he scolded, untying as fast as his fingers would manage. 

Hawke smirked, his eyes boring into the elf.  "I'm not done with you, elf," he said, voice deep, full of desire.  Fenris shivered at the sound of it, and then finally the mage was naked next to him, pulling him into his arms.

Fenris knew that Hawke didn't want to wait, and he didn't either.  He wrapped his fingers around the hard length of the mage, thumb smearing the wet silken tip.  He didn't care if he wasn’t ready.  It had been too long.  He leaned back, taking the vial from his own neck, and reached between his legs, smearing the oil back further around his entrance.  Hawke watched. The sight of Fenris preparing himself was erotic, too much for the mage to take.  He groaned, patience over.   He rolled the partly slick elf over onto his chest, knocking the vial out of Fenris' hands, spilling the shiny liquid out and into the rug.  Fenris moaned, fearing the pain and wanting it at the same time.  He lifted his hips off the floor, spreading his knees, opening.  The elf held his breath, waiting, wanting, until at last Hawke nudged the shining head of his prick against him and then inside.

The pain took Fenris' breath away, but he wanted this, _needed_ this.  He moaned, and pushed back, his body telling Hawke he wanted more; and the mage gave him more.   Lust was consuming the mage, but Hawke didn't want to hurt him, didn't want to be brutal.  His slide into the warrior was slow, deliberate, careful. 

Then the elf moaned, _"Please...."_

Hawke growled at the sound of the elf's voice, and finally, _finally_ pushed into him, completely engulfed in the soft, hot depths of his lover's body. The added friction turned every nerve alive and he gasped, falling over the warm, smooth arch of Fenris' back.  He groaned the elf's name in a choked breath, barely able to wait for him to respond.

Fenris cried out, thrilling at the pleasure and pain.  After a moment he started to move, rocking his hips back into the mage, willing himself to open more, pleading. "Hawke, _please_... more..." With those words the mage could not resist.  Fingers gripping the elf's hips, Hawke changed pace; faster, rougher, soft cries from Fenris on every stroke urging him on.  He tried to back off, slow down, but it had been so long.  He was going to come, and his jaw clenched tight.  The thrust twice more into the heat of the elf and then stiffened and groaned, as waves of release ran through him.

Fenris rocked his hips into the last deep, shuddering strokes, loving the feel of the mage coming hard and hot inside him.  He shivered as the mage withdrew, then rolled over on his back closing his eyes.  He was breathless and floating and _raw_ \- and it was perfect.

Hawke fell with a long exhalation of breath, beside the elf, his arm cast over his eyes.  Fenris spoke first, more of a chuckle than a word.

"Something funny, elf?"  From Hawke, still catching his breath and recovering.

"No, I guess not.  I've been here only minutes now, and we are already sated, on the floor."

Hawke rolled on his side, grinning.  He pulling the elf closer  to him and smiled down at brilliant green eyes catching the shine of the fire.  "I am not quite sated, elf," he said, nibbling at the elf's shoulder, as if to make the point.  "That was amazing, Fen.  I've missed you ," he whispered into the warm skin.

Fenris looked up at him, fingers reaching up to move long, dark hair from his eyes.  "I've missed you, too, _ma vhenan_." 

The elf had given up on hiding anything.  For now.  It wasn't worth it to miss this with Hawke, and hiding didn't work when the man's hands and mouth were on his flesh.  Fenris rolled over, facing the fire, and shifted back to press against the mage’s chest.  He pulled Hawke's arm over his waist, hugging it close.

"We might want to get into bed, Fenris," Hawke whispered, leaning into his lover's neck, planting kisses there and on his shoulder.

"Yes, we should," the elf mumbled, without any conviction.  A minute later, he was asleep.

 *********

The fire had died somewhat when Hawke finally let himself roll away from the sleeping elf.  He stood, his eyes lingering on the dark cord of the elf's pendant. He found the vial and locked the pieces back together.  Fenris had been wearing it again as a sign for him, he was sure.  He pushed back a momentary rush of relief; this thing between them might finally be over.  He carefully hooked the loop of cord over the elf's head as he slept.  Then he bent, lifting his lover from the floor, and cradled him in his arms in an attempt to place him on the bed.  Fenris didn't wake, so he held him for a moment, eyes gazing over the serene form.  The elf's body was warm from the firelight, and he was small and fragile, folded against the mage's chest.  The emotion stirring in Hawke's chest moved him in a way it never had before.

Nothing in all of Thedas could make him feel the way Fenris did.  Although others had tried.  Fenris was power and strength, hardness and fury, and when he let himself give,  let himself melt into him, it was the most beautiful thing the mage had ever known.  To be trusted that way, _wanted_ that way, was more than a poor man from Lothering could have ever believed he would have. 

The elf had been broken when they first met.  But his strength and resilience allowed him to battle his way through it, putting the pieces of himself back together.  The patience it took from Hawke to guide them through the lasting tarnish of Fenris' history was often staggering, but always, _always_ worth it.  Was the elf whole again?  Hawke thought not.  But, he loved him.  Every frustrating part.

He bent and kissed the elf's forehead, lowering him to the bed, pulling the blankets up over his naked form.  He walked around to the other side and climbed in beside him, as quietly as he could, but Fenris opened his eyes. 

"I wasn't sleeping long, I hope," he said quietly.

"Not long at all."  They were on their sides, facing each other, and Hawke rested his hand on the elf's waist, his thumb gently caressing still warm skin.  "Did I hurt, you Fen?   I should have waited..."

Fenris smiled from one corner of his mouth.  "I wasn't waiting either, Hawke.  And you didn't hurt me any more than I wanted you to."  He reached his hand up to Hawke's chest, finger knocking the vial of oil from side to side.  "I wondered if you still wore this."

"I've never taken it off, Fenris," he said.  His gaze moved down to the elf's chest and Fenris' eyes followed, seeing _his_ pendant back where it belonged.  He couldn't help but smile.  "Thank you, _Garrett_ ," he said softly.  Knowing that the mage had been looking after him while he slept stirred Fenris' aversion to vulnerability.  He felt heat spreading on his cheeks. "And you'll never take yours off again either..." Hawke said quietly, more of a statement than a question.  Fenris looked at him and nodded in silence.

The hand Hawke was resting at Fenris hip starting moving, caressing.  The elf, relaxed by the firelight and tenderness, rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.  Hawke moved closer, his fingers lightly tracing the elf's skin, across his abdomen, his hip, then down the length of one thigh.  Fenris sighed, shifting into the touch.  These were the moments that healed him; the affection, the adoration.  The mage slid the palm of his hand across the elf's chest, reaching to caress his neck, shoulder, then down to a hip again, then he kissed every bit of Elvhen skin he could reach. 

Fenris turned toward Hawke, opening his eyes, his mouth searching for a kiss.  "No, _da'mi_.  Lay still for me..."  Fenris smiled, and closed his eyes again, turning his face upward once more.

Hawke touched him again, everywhere.  His fingers like butterflies across the elf's pale skin.  He trailed the marks of white lyrium, down and around, one spiral after the next, feeling the elf flex and shiver. After what felt like forever to the elf, the mage slid his fingers across his abdomen, and _touched_ him.  Fenris moaned, a quiet sound of relief and desire, and the mage took him in his hand, feeling the rushing blood and Fenris harden at his touch.

The spark and crackle of the fire was the only sound as the mage silently stroked the aching elf, watching passion play over his face.

Fenris was hard now, and the need to feel skin against him was become a painful thing.  "Hawke..." he said, reaching for him.

Hawke pulled on the elf's prick, dragging his thumb through precome, feeling the elf shake.  "No, Fen.  Be still.  You'll see..."

Fenris didn't want to be still.  He wanted to pull Hawke into his arms and feel the warm firmness of his body next to him, but he heard the command in Hawke's voiceand the new found thrill of obedience made his heart pound faster.  His mind fogged over with the joyful haze of relinquishing control.

The hard length of the elf's cock was leaking, and Hawke leaned over to lick it away.  Fenris sucked in a breath  and squirmed at the touch of his tongue.  Hawke turned his face toward him, still hovering over his middle. "Shh... Come on, Fen.  Be still.  I don't want to remind you again.  Do this for me?"

Fenris wasn't sure what that meant, but he did as the mage asked, quietly taking a slow, deep breath.

Hawke's mouth was on him again, tongue grazing around the corona, then sucking him into his throat.  His hand still moved on the elf, and Fenris felt the agonizing pleasure roll through him with every stroke.  The mage moved his other hand, cupping his balls gently, letting them fall as his fingers moved further back, pressing gently around the elf's hole. 

Hawke was teasing him, and the elf knew it.  He resisted moving, delighting in every sensation and pulse of pleasure the mage sent through him.  Still, quiet.  He could do this; prove to the mage he wouldn't break.  Then Hawke wet his finger, and pressed it into the elf, just enough...

Before Fenris could will himself to resist, his hips arched against the mage's hand, and a groan came out of his throat.  He froze, eyes wide.   _Be still_ echoed in his mind.

Hawke slowly pulled away and peeled himself off the bed, standing next to it.  His eyes burned into the elf's.  "I thought you could do this, Fenris," he said, looking down at him.

Fenris could hardly believe what was happening.  The game Hawke was playing had every nerve in his body alive.  His cock was throbbing, aching to be touched.  His body waiting for another command to obey.  He wanted to be sorry, to tell the mage he would try harder, but he didn't dare speak.  At the same time, something inside the elf balked at these actions.  The war between his desire to be dominated by the mage and to fight against it surged within.

Fenris watched as Hawke crossed the room and poured a snifter of brandy.  He sat in a soft armchair and turned to face the elf.  Fenris could clearly see him from the bed.  The mage sipped the brandy and set the glass on the table next to him.

The elf was going mad.  He couldn't move, couldn't speak, and his body was _aching_ for anything to touch him.  What was the mage doing?   _Please come back to bed, Hawke.  I'll show you. I can do this. I_ _want to do this. Come back to bed._

Hawke sipped his brandy and said nothing.

Fenris waited, memories of the mage caressing him, kissing him, sucking him into his mouth, all taunting him, one after the other.  Finally he put it together.  Hawke was leaving him to these thoughts deliberately.  His anger was instantly doused in a wave of arousal, his treacherous body winning again.    _Hawke, please...anything..._

Long minutes went by; Hawke sipped the brandy again and finally stood. 

The mage walked to the bed, looking down at the elf.  His face was blank, emotionless, as he reached one finger down, dragging it through the puddle of precome on the elf's trembling belly, meeting the warrior's gaze. Still watching, he licked the glistening liquid from his finger and waited.

Fenris didn't move.

Hawke turned and finished the brandy as though nothing had happened. Setting  the glass down he moved, with the grace of a cat, back into bed.  The warrior lay still, not sure what to do.  Hawke positioned himself next to Fenris, draping one leg over the elf's and looping one arm around his waist, sharing the heat of his body.   Leaning over he kissed him, a long, deep, deliberate kiss, and breathed, "That's better, Fenris," against his throat.  The mage's warmth and attention had never meant this much, and the elf basked in the glow of it as long as he could.  Too soon, Hawke pulled away.

Still cautious, Fenris lay still, watching.  The mage rose up on his knees and opened the vial that hung around his neck.  The elf's immobile form prickled with anticipation as the oil dripped onto the mage's thick fingers.  Fenris could only stare.   Hawke closed the vial and looked back into his eyes, then down, slowly along the length of the warrior's body, golden eyes hungry and lustful, gleaming with firelight.  The caster lay down next to the elf again, using his wrist to bend and raise the elf's knee, then reached back and below to the elf's cleft to push two fingers inside him.

The sensation ripped through the elf like lightning, sending sparks of pain and arousal through every part of him.  He trembled, just barely, and sweat broke out across his brow, but he didn't move.  Lips pressed tightly together, and eyes squeezed shut, he didn't make a sound.  The mage's slick fingers moved in and out of him slowly and still the elf did nothing more than breathe.

"Ah.  Well done, _da'mi_.  That was beautiful," Hawke said, voice low, heavy with something Fenris didn't recognize.  It snaked a trail of desire and _fear_ through him.

Hawke's thick fingers moved again, and Fenris struggled to be still.  The mage added a third finger and Fenris pressed his lips together harder, and a single tear fell from his eye.  Fenris' cock was so swollen it hurt, and it was leaking with every heartbeat.   The need to come was a brutal, throbbing, life consuming thing, and his mind was nearly blind with it.  _Maker Hawke, no more.  Please no more...._

Hawke leaned over him, fingers still pistoning in and out, tormenting the elf.  He kissed his cheek, his lips, mouth grazing down his neck, nibbling at his shoulder, dragging across his chest.  "You are glorious, Fenris.  Beautiful.  Look at how strong you are," Hawke whispered, his voice hoarse with his own painful need.  He moved back up the elf's body, his breath hot and moist against the elf's ear.   " You've done so well, Fenris.  The game is over, _ma vhenan_.  Come for me." 

Hawke curled his fingers inside the elf, sinking his teeth gently into the warrior's shoulder, and Fenris came.  He uttered  Hawke's name with a breathless groan as he climaxed, the last touch inside him sending him over the edge. Every muscle in his body tensed and he writhed and he arched hard up off the bed, blankets clenched tightly in his fists.  Searing daggers of sensation wound through his cock, his groin, his hips, then radiated sweet pulses of pleasure and release out and through his aching body.

Fenris groaned and tensed again, then finally collapsed back on the bed, panting and incoherent.  He was shaking, sweating and he lay still for awhile, waiting for his heart to return to its normal rhythm.  Hawke reached for him, and pulled him close.  He pressed his face into the sweat drenched skin of his neck, feeling the damp hair feather across his face.  "I'm here, Fen.  It's alright."  The mage pulled the blankets up, covering the elf to his chest.  He murmured words of praise and devotion, soothing and calming the elf.  The hard edge was gone from his voice, and Fenris was glad to hear the gentle side of the man he loved again.

The tremors and shaking finally abated, and Fenris drew a deep, sobbing breath before he relaxed against the warm and welcoming body behind him.   Hawke spoke, "C'mere, Fen," and he rolled on his back.  The elf rolled over too, next to and on top of the mage.  He bent a knee over Hawke's legs and rested his face against his chest.

"Are you alright?"  Hawke asked.

"I am, if a bit shaken.  That was..." Fenris was at a loss for words.

The mage chuckled fondly, "It was good then?"

"No, it was amazing."

They were quiet for a moment, hands caressing the familiar warmth of each other.  "What about you...?" Fenris asked.

"Don't worry about me, _da'mi_.  Watching you was...enough."  Hawke smiled realizing he really _didn't_ care if it took all night for his discomfort to fade.  What they had just shared was worth all of it.

Fenris wasn't looking for permission, though.  He knocked the blankets back from Hawke's waist, and wrapped his long, thin fingers around his shaft.  The mage was so hard, it had to hurt.  Hawke groaned, and unconsciously pulled the white hair already in his hand, thrusting his hips into the elf's grip.  It was over in moments, Hawke moaning and cursing with release, the wet mess of his orgasm falling across his chest.  Fenris left the bed and returned with a damp towel.  Once they were both mostly clean, he climbed back into bed and curled up next to the warm, muscled length of his lover, tugging the blankets back into place.

Fenris sighed, his hand coasting over Hawke's lightly furred chest. 

"So, you see why you should always take your elf with you?   Think of all the great sex we missed."

Hawke chuckled.  " _My_ elf?  You're slipping, Fen."

"Don't get too comfortable, mage."

Hawke tightened his arm around the smaller man. The familiarity of their jesting comforting to them both.

"I will never go anywhere without you again, Fenris."

"Are you sure about that, Hawke?"

"I'm sure."

The euphoric relaxation of orgasm had moved them both into sleepiness.  Fenris sighed, eyelids heavy and voice tired and quiet. A hundred questions swirled around in his head, but they could wait.  He closed his eyes and slept.

*******

It was an hour before dawn when Fenris awoke. The fired had died, leaving the room dark.  Hawke was sleeping soundly next to him, and he was careful to not disturb him.

He rolled away from the mage, over on his side, and stared into the inky blackness of the room.  He remembered the tone of Hawke's voice, the way he touched him.  He remembered the thrill of obedience and he was suddenly washed in shame.

The sex was brilliant and beautiful and he had felt so alive.  But Fenris' inner voice chastised him for falling apart - for becoming that which he was most afraid to show.   He had lost control.  Submitted completely.  He had shown Hawke how fragile and compliant he could be, and that was only a step away from need.   The Champion could never know that the elf had become desperate without him.

Panic hit fast and hard, Fenris was suddenly struggling to breathe.  He needed to get away from the mage, go somewhere he could think without the warm comfort of Garrett Hawke so close to him,.  He carefully slid off the bed and found his clothes.   After he was dressed, he returned to look down at Hawke, wanting to touch his face, kiss his cheek.  _I'm going to fix this, Hawke.  I'm not going to let you down_.  He mouthed the words, _I love you_ , and slipped out of the room without a sound.

*******

Hawke watched as Fenris dressed, pale slivers of moonlight illuminating his skin.  The elf didn't know he was awake.  As Fenris left, the mage remembered all those years ago, their first tentative night together.  Then, before dawn, just like this, Fenris was standing in front of the fire, telling him he felt like a fool, and then he left him.  Yes, the elf had a reason.  There was _always_ a reason. 

He couldn't imagine what had pulled the elf away from him this time.  Maybe he'd return.

_Please come back, Fenris._

_I can't do this anymore_.

*******

At sunrise, two hours later, the mage had not slept - and Fenris had never returned. 

During those hours Hawke mulled over his bizarre relationship with the elf. He loved him -- he knew that with his entire being. But the selfish elf had left him to wake up alone. To face all of the unanswered questions that went along with his absence. Hawke decided it didn't really matter where he'd gone or why.  The elf's actions were simply thoughtless and cruel.

So, instead of searching the keep frantically for the man he loved, pleading for answers, his chest constricted with fear that something had gone wrong - he simply let the whole thing go.

He didn't know what made this time different than any other.  He had always been able to take whatever Fenris dished out.  But, Hawke had things to do, and protecting the elf from self-destruction could no longer be his priority.   He was exhausted.  It was never going to be enough.  _He_ was never going to be enough.  It was over.  Garrett Hawke was done.

 

 


	13. Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a love story, and this is the last chapter... so...
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter, and so much else, co-authored by mlp_buttons - the coolest friend in the world.

* * * * * * *

When Fenris opened his eyes, it took only an instant to realize something was wrong.  In the next moment he knew what it was, and seconds later he was at full sprint for the mage's room.   His chest filled with dread.  The knowledge of what his disappearing in the night would mean to Hawke wormed its way insistently into the back of his mind, an unwanted and unavoidable truth.  The rationalization and denial spoke to him as he covered the distance to the room... 

 _But Hawke wouldn’t give up because the elf had overslept. Right?_    But, Hawke didn’t know he’d overslept.

 _After everything, Hawke wouldn’t change his mind because he’d awakened alone. Would he?_    After everything, Hawke _had_ been left to wake up alone.

 _And Hawke would never believe that Fenris would leave after their passionate night before._ Except Hawke _would_ believe that the elf would run because running was what Fenris did.

And Fenris _had_ run.

Fenris had run.  _Again._  

The elf's thoughts finally and fully caught up with him as he came to a stop in front of the other man's door.  It dawned on him then that he wasn't rushing to explain or apologize.  He was running toward the end; whether by shouts or whispers, he knew it was over.  

When he finally opened the door, the room was empty and still.  The over-large bed was made and beams of morning light carved through the air and fell across it.  He shoved back the memories of the night before and stood in the doorway, fingers still curled around the door handle for anchor.  Hawke was gone.  Everything that was Hawke was gone. 

He had run through the keep to find him, and his chest still heaved as though it mattered.  Across the room on the dresser, a murmur of red caught his eye.  It could have been a corpse the way it lay there, crimson and unmoving, crumpled and mounded in some places, stretched thin in others.  The favor he'd worn for so many years, discarded.  Rejected.  Lifeless. 

*******

He'd meant to return.  He'd meant to wake and feel the comfortable strength of the mage's chest pressed against his back.  He would lie there, listening to the quiet sound of Hawke breathing into this hair until he felt the first morning kiss against the nape of his neck, the broad rough feel of the other man's hand caressing the arch of his hip.  He'd meant for this to be the first day of everything real, not the last.

When he didn't find Hawke in his room, Fenris ran to the courtyard, getting there with only a minute to spare.  A minute before the Inquisitor and his party of courageous heroes left for the Fortress of Adamant, a minute before the fate of Thedas began its march into history. 

It didn't take him long to find Hawke.  Everything always led to him.  He was packed and mounted, the dark horse he rode already anxious and pawing the earth.  The mage easily reined him in, strong forearms flexing in the sunlight.  Even in this desperate moment, Fenris couldn't stop himself from admiring the man’s strength.  The elf tried not to notice that both horse and rider looked well beyond ready to depart.

The chaos of the gathering of people was lost on Fenris.  He didn't see anyone but Hawke.  The only sound he heard was the creek of the mount's saddle leather, the rub and clatter of horse tackle under the rider, insisting that it was time to go. 

_Don't leave._

Their eyes met.  Hawke didn't smile, and it was enough of a confirmation of the elf's fears that his chest constricted.  His hands curled into fists of resistance; resisting the truth, resisting the oppressive desire to spill the same over used words of apology that would fall meaningless and unwanted on the man's ears.

There was resolution in the Ferelden's eyes, and a sorrowful pain.  Fenris knew the look.  He had seen it before; when the mage spoke of his mother's death, or his sister's, or when someone mentioned Lothering.  The man who had tried so hard to heal him was in pain, and _he_ had done this to him.  Too many times, _he_ had done this to him.

He wanted to tell him it was a mistake, falling asleep.  A ridiculous, tragic, unforeseen accident that meant nothing about the way he felt.   The words came up from his chest, but fell hollow in his throat.  It would all just sound like more of the same weak explanations that really only said the same thing; I ran from you.  Again.

Everything had fallen into place in Fenris' mind.  It was he who had torn the promise from his wrist, taken the pendant from his neck, he who had been unforgiving and relentless in his doubt.  Hawke had loved him, tried to understand him, and had given enough.  Given too much.  Fenris wouldn't ask again.  He loved Hawke enough to let him go without making him try to understand.  It was the least he could do.

The horse danced and huffed beneath Hawke, but his eyes stayed on the elf.  Two thousand days and nights of a lifetime shared raced through Fenris' mind, thinning, fading, rushing away too fast as desperate, pale fingers tried in vain to catch even one, to somehow never create this very last memory of the end. 

_Don't go._

For just a moment, Fenris thought he'd seen some stirring of emotion in the dark golden eyes that looked back at him.  Just a glimmer of connection, but it was gone before he could decipher it.  Cold and resolute distance replaced it, and it burned into him like raw fire, worse than the agony of lyrium being branded into flesh, more suffocating than the strangling hold of the master's greedy fingers on his soul.  He closed his eyes against overwhelming grief and regret.  When he opened them Hawke was gone.

* * * * * * *

Packing his things for the journey to Amaranthine, Fenris found himself in mage's old room once again.  He was there to retrieve the scarlet favor, the symbol of the promise between Hawke and himself that had clung to his wrist all those years.  If he were honest with himself, he would get over Hawke sooner without it, but that kind of honesty would have to wait for another day.

"No more knitting, Fenris?"  The quiet voice of Cole spoke from behind the elf, who didn't turn.  The warrior held his gaze on the scrap of fabric he held, now somehow coarse and ragged in his fingers.

"No."  The deep resonance of his voice made the word bigger than it was.  Some things had finished healing, others never would.  Seventeen days had passed since he'd last seen Hawke, and he'd finally healed, and trained, and was ready to head out in a reluctant search for whatever was next.  He let the favor drop from his hand into his bag, wishing he could let go of everything it meant just as easily.

He turned then, eyeing the smaller man.  "No," he repeated, "no more knitting.  I am fit and well, Cole.  I am finally leaving Skyhold.  I'm glad you're here that I might say goodbye, and thank you again for saving my life."

Cole looked back, his face lacking nearly all sign of expression, but something stirred in him.  "I wanted to help, Fenris.  Do you remember?  He hurts you _and_ he heals you."

Fenris knew the truth of this too well.  "Yes, Cole, I remember.   And he did.  He healed me."   The elf offered his version of a smile then, "You needn't worry about me.  I understand it is your nature, but I have walked a dark path before, and I'm stronger than I look.  Time marches on."

"Be well, Fenris," Cole said softly, and he left as silently as he appeared, closing the door behind him.

Fenris drew the sword from his back and swung it in a lazy arc through the shafts of sun, then tossed it indolently on the bed, taking the nearby chair.  Hawke wasn't entirely gone from the room; the scent of him lingered.  The memories the elf had pushed away these last weeks were fighting hard to return.  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, fingers curling reflexively in the trouser fabric above his knees. 

_The smell of his hair, the strength of his hands holding the elf's hips.  The quiet, restrained moans that leaked from the mage's chest a moment before he shuddered and fell against the elf's back, crushing them both into the rug, sweaty and warm._

There was a sound in the doorway, and Fenris didn't open his eyes.  "Did you forget something, Cole?"

"Yes, it seems I did.  Somehow, I left my elf behind."

*******

Fenris' eyes snapped open, and he froze in place seeing Hawke standing in the threshold of the door.  He rose from the chair, but held his ground, heart pounding in his chest.  Neither moved as their eyes locked across the room.

So many times he had said the wrong thing and the fear of doing so again kept him silent.  Then he remembered the past weeks spent alone and how many times he'd thought, _if only I could speak to him again..._

The truth.  From now on, only the truth. 

"I should have trusted you, Garrett.  From the beginning."  

Hawke's face softened, only a trace of hesitation still reflected in his eyes. "Then trust me now, Fenris."

"I came to Skyhold because I... need you."  The world did not stop turning, and the mage hadn't laughed or fled, so he went on, taking a deep breath.  "I told myself it was because I wanted to share the battle with you, and because it was my duty to fight at your side, but that was not entirely accurate."

Hawke still hadn't moved, but the next part stuck in Fenris' throat, so he crossed the room to stare out a window as he spoke, avoiding the mage's gaze.

"Something has changed in me, Hawke, during our time together.  I've grown... accustomed to you managing our life.  My life.  I've let myself rely on you.  Depend on you.  I didn't realize it, and I didn't mind it.  Until you were gone."

"Fenris..."

The warrior turned and their eyes met again.  "I should have trusted you.  I should have told you I was... afraid.  I was afraid you would see my need as weakness, and we would be done."  Fenris straightened then, determined to keep himself steady, unphased, strong in his confession, and in himself.  _The truth_...  
  
"I am no longer the man I was, Hawke.  While I will always be the warrior and swordsman you met that night in the alienage, that is not all there is to me.  The truth is, Hawke, that I...sometimes it just feels right to surrender.... to this.  To you."  He couldn't look as he said those words, and his cheeks flushed red as he tore his gaze from Hawke and lifted the Blade of Mercy from the bed.  The cold metal of the grip was better than magic, the feel of it in his hands infusing strength and fighter's courage back into the elf.  He drew another deep breath, sheathing the sword at his back, and looked up again. 

"I wasn't angry that you left me, Hawke.  I'm not angry now.  I was angry that I had to confront these things... confront myself.  And I blamed you.  I know that now.  I have begged your forgiveness too many times, I know, but I must ask it again.  I'm sorry, Hawke.  Forgive me."

"Fenris, I _did_ force you to deal with those things.  I _did_ leave you alone.  If you can forgive _me_ , I will never leave you alone again."

 _Again._  He wasn't going to leave.  Fenris felt his heart race once more, another chance for them within reach.

"Hawke - Garrett - I would do or be anything for you, to be with you.  I _need_ you.  I need your hand guiding our life.  I need your anger when I forget to give back.  I need your kindness when I am broken.  I am scarred and tattered Hawke, and the only thing that has ever made me whole is you."  The elf looked down at his hands, the weight of everything seeming suddenly so much to bear.  His resolve was thinning, and his voice was barely a whisper when he spoke again.  "I cannot hide these things anymore, Hawke.  If it makes me weak - too weak - then so be it, but on my life, from here forward, you will only ever hear the truth from me."

The silence drew out once more, and Fenris found himself holding his breath.  When the caster finally spoke, there was wonder in his voice, and the elf let air into his lungs again, listening.

"Fenris of Seheron, lyrium-lined warrior, a fearless and deadly elf who single-handedly fought his way out of slavery.  That _warrior_ trusts only one man in all of Thedas with his life, his future.  And by Andraste's grace, that man is _me_."

The elf's head snapped up, eyes wide for just a moment.  Hawke was smiling, a twinkle just beginning to glimmer in his eyes, and Fenris' gaze narrowed in relief, a smirk finding its way to his thin lips.

"So, are we done here, Fen?" the mage asked, a grin breaking out on his face.  Hawke fought back both nervous laughter and the urge to tumble the elf backward onto the bed.  He crossed the room then, taking Fenris' hand, and twined their fingers together.  Fenris leaned against him, and they looked into each other's eyes, letting the new promise sink in, letting their connection reaffirm itself, deeper than it ever had been before.

"We're done here, mage," Fenris said finally.  Then he pulled away, smiling.  "You should know that I will not come to your bed again if it is anywhere on this mountain.  Get me out of here, will you?"

"Consider it done, Fen.  We need to leave for Weisshaupt.  The Wardens are in trouble."

They left the room then, hands still clasped together.  An hour later, Skyhold was behind them.  Three hours later they were no longer on the mountain.

Sometime after that, under the waning light of day, sky a sleepy pink and a breeze blowing gently over bare skin, they twisted together on a blanket in the grass, forgiving each other with breathless moans and soft caresses.  It was quiet, and warm, and perfect.  And as he always had, Hawke pulled his lover closer when he heard the elf whisper, "Please..."

* * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and followed the progress of this fic. It was a thrill to write.  
> I cannot thank my friend and beta reader, mlp_buttons, enough for her part of this. She wrote the prompt, and then held my hand all the way through. I love you, darling 333.
> 
> Also thanks to the wonderful writers at DA Writers Group for companionship and feedback. XOXO
> 
> Please take a moment to leave a comment. Your feedback means so much to the writers :)


End file.
